


The White Elephant of Panschin

by Odessa_Moon



Series: The Steppes of Mars [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Class Differences, Colonization, Culture shock in a nutshell, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mars, Social ruin, Terraforming, Underneath the underneath, a world made by hand, implied/threatened rape, unbetaed - we die like men, we're not jane austen but we write like we are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 16:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 207,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18144470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odessa_Moon/pseuds/Odessa_Moon
Summary: Veronica Bradwell struggles every day trying to keep her family fed and secure. Her sister, Shelby, is marked forever by what their father did. Malcolm Cobb bears the mark of Cain, unacceptable to the ruling classes and no longer welcome in the mining tunnels. Then there is Airik, the daimyo of Shelleen. He comes to Panschin to save his demesne from being destroyed by the Red Mercury Lode and discovers a future different than the one he expected.





	1. Miss Veronica Bradwell

**Author's Note:**

> Updated once a week on Sunday.

     Veronica Bradwell sat back on her heels, stretching her spine and neck as she worked out the kinks. She’d been weeding for over an hour now, pulling the clumpy patches of algae and fungal threads out from around the lettuces, breaking them apart and pushing them deeper, working her fingers through the friable loam. She had worked hard to build this soil, since very little that was natural was normal in Panschin. There was enough sunshine pouring through Dome Two to grow her vegetables and so of course, there was more than enough light for the terraformers to grow too.

     She turned her sticky, slimed hands over, studying the greenish-reddish blobs clinging to her deep green fingers. The wetter chunks oozed down, dropping to the soil where they lay like clotted blood.

     The terraforming algae, lichens, and fungus were what were remaking Mars into a viable planet. They made oxygen. They built up organic material in the soil so it could be used to grow things to eat. They supported every other kind of life on what had been a dead planet made of red sand. They made life possible. They had killed her mother.

     The very air, she knew, was full of microscopic spores. It was why every flat surface that was bare sand or rock and got some sunlight was soon covered with a thick layer of algae. Fortunately, the terraformers were out-competed by most plants once the soil moved from dead sand to something more viable that could support life. Even so, if she wanted her lettuces to be at their best, she still had to break up the jelly-like masses so that the lettuces didn’t have to work as hard. Vegetable growing could be tedious work, but it earned her desperately needed hard coin.

     And, if Veronica was honest and she was always honest with herself, it gave her a bit of pleasure to break apart the fungal masses with her own hands instead of using a hand cultivator. If you were susceptible to fungal infections, and Mrs. Bradwell was, eventually you caught one of the many wasting diseases and eventually, you died from one of them. Breaking up the fungal masses, she supposed, released still more spores into the air, but what was a few more when every breath was full of them? And these were immature spores, not yet viable. She had killed them and they would rot, instead of growing.

     Perhaps if her mother had gone outside the Domes of Panschin more often, she would have been healthier but she had not. Perhaps if her father had not cheated his investment clients and then been caught red-handed, her mother would have fought harder. Perhaps if her father, Simon Bradwell, had not taken the easy way out -- avoiding the sure verdict in the courtroom by slitting his wrists in the bath -- everything would have been different.

     Or not. It was all past now; the scandal, the grief, the hurtful divorce, the lawsuits, the bankruptcy hearings, the remains of the once proud Bradwell family refusing to speak to her and her younger sister Shelby as though they were contaminated. All done and gone and what remained was Veronica Bradwell doing her damnedest to keep herself, Shelby, and her great-aunt Neza safe, secure, housed, and fed. Dwelling on the past, with its mistakes and sadness, did not weed or water lettuces nor did it pay the monthly lease on the White Elephant looming up behind her.

     Veronica squeezed a big blob of algae between her fingers, watching it drip into the narrow slot she had dug in the soil with her fingers. It was just too bad the terraformers weren’t edible. If they were, that would be one less thing to fret over. The edible algae from the tanks had to be paid for. The vat-grown yeasts had to be paid for as well. Government provided mil-rats were free, but they didn’t often show up in Panschin, so far to the north and well away from wherever they were manufactured. When they did get shipped to Panschin, they went directly to the families of the miners living in the underground tunnels. It was assumed if you lived above ground in a dome, especially a dome like Dome Two, you could afford to buy what you ate.

     This was not true, but there was nothing Veronica could do about it. In fact, many of the people who did live in Dome Two, in the formerly grand mansions now decaying into tenement houses, would cheerfully have eaten free mil-rats as opposed to paying out hard coin for algae pudding and yeast blocks. Her little family certainly would.

     It was strange, to live in a mansion like the White Elephant, yet worry over every penny spent. What was left of this branch of the Bradwell family looked rich to outsiders, not hanging on by their fingernails. But she and Shelby were still very lucky. Veronica knew that. They had a home thanks to Auntie Neza. Shelby was able to attend Panschin University, using up the last of Auntie Neza’s trust fund. The tiny yard around the White Elephant allowed Veronica to grow a surprisingly wide array of vegetables and even some fruit. What they didn’t eat themselves, Veronica sold at the back doors of local restaurants and bars or traded to other enterprising pioneers taking over the decayed mansions of Dome Two. Truthfully, Veronica sold most of what she grew as she made more money by selling her produce to the Dappled Yak bistro than she spent purchasing algae pudding or yeast blocks to eat.

     They _were_ lucky. They had a house with a very favorable lease, they were all healthy, Shelby had a chance at a career -- if only she would paint to market instead of trying to be an artiste -- and Veronica knew how to grow vegetables and write up magazine articles showing other people how to do it too. Learning how to write charming yet coherent instructions was about the only benefit of her own unfinished degree from PanU. What a waste of money that had turned out to be, trying to get a degree in Martian Literature.

     Veronica pushed that regret away firmly. It had been the right thing to do at the time and she loved literature. She smiled at the colorful lettuces, every shade of delicate, newly alive green. They were pretty enough to almost be a substitute for the flowers she really wanted to grow and had, before her world fell apart. What would her professors say if they knew she was writing articles for gardening columns telling people how to grow carrots in containers? Probably tell her she was wasting her talents, but what did they know? They weren’t trying to make ends meet, when the ends always seemed so far apart.

     She wiped her hands, rubbing the last of the algae off onto the soil, then rubbed them cleaner on her shabby coverall. As Veronica stood, she could hear the white gravel surrounding the sunken bed crunch under her feet. It glinted in the filtered sun. It was very quiet at this time of day and she wished there was a bird or two to sing. Not much lived inside the Domes other than people, even in Dome Two with its green spaces. She walked slowly around the sunken bed, surveying her miniature world. It would soon be time to rake out the gravel again, breaking up the algae and lichens trying to establish a foothold. She wouldn’t have bothered, but they were unpleasantly slippery to walk on and she couldn’t afford to fall and injure herself. Besides, the white gravel, next to the White Elephant, reflected every bit of the yellowed sunlight flooding through the dome and the additional light made her garden grow better.

     Veronica missed the sound of birds although she rarely enjoyed the privilege of hearing them. She remembered every moment of every time she had been able to leave the domes of Panschin and go outside.

     The sky had been immense, full of scudding clouds, stretching upwards to forever, deepening its pink-tinged blue from the horizon to its highest point, a subtle shift of tone that could not be duplicated in paint. The air had felt alive; a whispering breeze that carried the scent of living things and the chatter of their voices. There had been insects, birds, many kinds she thought, and other creatures as well. At any rate, the sounds did not remain the same, always changing, unlike the recordings that people sometimes played in their homes to pretend they lived outside in the fresh air.

     The steppes surrounding Panschin had gone on forever, meeting the horizon at long last, an endless deep sea of every shade of brown and green, bowing and rustling before the wind. The hills undulated under their cloak of grass, promising strange new places on their other sides, the sides hidden from her view. They were sides she would never see.

     Dome Two, the most spacious dome in Panschin, was nothing like being outside. The dome made sure of that. It was high but not as high as the sky was and it suffered from an irregular, yellowish haze that distorted the sky beyond. It was the largest dome in Panschin, four klicks across but you always knew you were inside a manmade structure. The immensely thick, tall stone walls that held up the glassteel made sure you could never see past the dome and out into the wider world. You always knew the size of the box you were trapped in.

     The glassteel of Dome Two had yellowed with age and no longer let through the sun as it had when it was new. The ventilation may have been state of the art when Dome Two had been built, but it wasn’t anything like being outside. It wasn’t as nice as the ventilation in Dome Five and certainly not as nice as Dome Six. Dome Six was sometimes opened to the outside in sections during the summer heat, allowing in true sun, true breezes, even birds who took up residence in the strips of green landscape scattered among the towers. Since Dome Two could not be opened to the outside air, birds rarely found their way within, even the ubiquitous steppes sparrows. Those who did tended to live on the grounds of the university, where the students competed to stuff them full of crumbs. The few squirrels were even fatter.

     Veronica stared up at the dome overhead, trying to peer through it to see the wide, exciting, amazing world beyond. It was a sunny day outside. She could tell. There were few clouds today, blocking the warming light. Spring was a good time in the dome, before the summer sun made it hot and stuffy and after the wild temperature swings of the winter. The moons were up somewhere, they always were, but not over Panschin. They were too far north for the moons to be visible other than as dots at the horizon, dots that would never show above the walls supporting the dome. You had to be outside on a hilltop to see them racing past the edge of the world, barely above the horizon. At night the stars were invisible, obscured by the haze of the glassteel and the few lights inside Dome Two bouncing off its underside. A cloudy, rainy night didn’t look much different from one that was clear from inside the dome.

     You never forgot that a translucent bowl was suspended over your head.

     Veronica wove her way between the sunken beds, each edged in stone, crunching across the raked gravel. The beds that weren’t full of luxuriant plant growth, in one stage of maturity or another, were crammed with terraformers. The terraformers didn’t need to be watered or cared for so she left them to their own devices. When she needed a new bed, and she had the water available, she spaded under the algae and planted her precious seeds, carefully counting them out so there was never any waste.

     Astonishingly, the gardening books sent to Panschin from points further south assumed you would plant many seeds and then weed out the excess plants. Veronica had quickly realized that this was useless information inside the domes, considering the cost of seeds and the scarcity of soil to plant them in, so her very first article for ‘Panschin Today’ had discussed how to space out and plant only what you needed. That article had launched her career as a sometime magazine writer who understood the needs of Panschin gardeners.

     Unfortunately, the magazines didn’t want many articles on gardening as most people in Panschin didn’t have any growing space at all, not even a container in front of a window. You had to live aboveground to have a window and most of the residents of Panschin lived in the tunnels below.

     Yes, Veronica and Shelby were fortunate. She chose to walk all around the White Elephant, enjoying the precious, tiny yard that surrounded the house. Dome Two was unique in Panschin. When it had been built, the builders wanted to emulate what was done elsewhere on Mars, closer to the equator, where people lived outside year-round. This far north, nobody lived outside year-round, not if they wanted to stay alive through the harsh, unending winter.

     The richest citizens, who all naturally expected to live in Dome Two as soon as it was built, wanted gardens to surround their grand houses. They wanted green, open space to surround Panschin University, the museums, the opera house, main library, the hotels, the shopping arcade, and restaurants. Every possible amenity was conveniently located in Dome Two for the benefit of those residents, and it was believed that nothing could be grander or better built, so it was all built to last.

     However, despite their experience with building Dome One, the dome builders had not fully reckoned on the ventilation issues a larger dome would have. Nor had they fully grasped how stuffy a dome could be in the summer, despite its larger size. The glassteel that made up the dome had been a new, improved formulation that hazed over in a manner that the developer claimed could never happen. The lawsuit over that issue had been wending its way through the courts for decades and it was widely expected that a ruling would take another decade at least.

     The green spaces and yards turned out to need watering on a regular basis. Water was a precious resource in Panschin but somehow, the dome developers had overlooked the fact that most places that had outdoor greenery also had rain that watered those gardens for free. This omission had spurred another lengthy lawsuit, still being fought out in the courts.

     Every single green space in Dome Two had to be hand-watered. If you could afford it, you tapped into the public water system and ran expensive hoses full of expensive water. If you couldn’t, like Veronica Bradwell, you scrimped and saved for what you could afford. She didn’t waste a drop of water, catching and reusing that precious fluid and never letting any of it go down a drain. She carried around a heavy watering can and never watered anything that didn’t need it.

     It only took a few moments to circle around the house, so much larger than the garden that surrounded it. Veronica made her way to the mailbox, mounted on the low stone wall that marked off the Bradwell estate from the houses around it. Like the White Elephant, those houses were large and the gardens surrounding them tiny. Unlike the White Elephant, their tiny yards were overrun with terraforming algae whereas her little domain was green and lush with actual plants. Unlike the White Elephant, some of those formerly grand homes had been subdivided into tiny apartments. Not all of Veronica’s neighbors bothered to convert their little yards into money-makers, although she was not alone in her endeavors. Some of those neighbors were far more experienced than she was and were more willing to take attention-drawing, lease-breaking risks.

     She studied the mailbox, mottled with bright lichens, feeling that familiar mix of anticipation and dread. She wanted to find an acceptance letter and a check for her latest effort on growing limon trees in containers, but Veronica expected it to be a rejection and it was. She was afraid to find another bill and of course there was one. This one was from the Panschin Gazette, asking if she wanted to renew her ad.

     Veronica had, in yet another attempt to earn some money, run an advertisement listing the White Elephant as a bed and breakfast. Very few people had taken advantage of her advertisement, despite the White Elephant’s convenient location near to the center of Dome Two. Those who deigned to stay in Dome Two, now so déclassé but still the heart of most cultural events in Panschin, were either rich enough to choose one of the formerly grand hotels or were too poor to afford even Veronica’s very reasonable rates. Everyone else who came to Dome Two to attend the opera or visit the museums took the trams back to their homes or the finer hotels in Dome Five and Dome Six after the event was over.

     She studied the house, still well-kept, even if the style was sadly outmoded. The White Elephant was a two-story building, with two wings surrounding the lofty entrance. As customary in Panschin, there were two more stories below ground, with light shafts to illuminate them during daytime. Also customary, the White Elephant did not have a true roof as there was no need for a roof under a dome. It had, instead, a rooftop terrace that covered the entire footprint of the building, other than the atrium opening. Unusually, the terrace did not have a simple balustrade. Instead, the White Elephant’s balustrade was made of a wall of pink and gray tile, similar to what a roof would be, if the White Elephant had been located where houses needed roofs to keep out the rain.

     The faux roof was topped with lacy wrought iron in a fanciful design of leaves and flowers. The pink and gray tiles, along with the whitewashed walls, and the purely decorative gray shutters at every large window, were why the house had been called the White Elephant for as long as Veronica could remember. Regular sweeping with long-handled brooms kept the building clean from algae.

     As always, Veronica wondered if she dared rent out rooms to boarders. There were plenty of them available in the house, although most of the furniture had been sold. There was even some demand, from people who worked in Dome Two and did not want to live farther out. Many people hated living underground in the tunnels, but housing above ground in Dome Three, Dome Five, and Dome Six tended to be expensive. Dome One’s ventilation was so unpleasant that few people lived there if they could afford to live anywhere else. Dome Four was industrial and, technically, nobody was supposed to live there at all although some people did. Dome Two was déclassé, down at heels, not where the better classes lived anymore, and could be unsafe, but it had room aplenty if you didn’t mind the somewhat seedy and bohemian atmosphere that accompanied the ventilation and heating issues.

     The problem was that Auntie Neza’s lease, so favorable in so many ways, was decidedly unfavorable on the subject of subletting. If the Second National Bank of Panschin found out she was subletting, their century lease would be voided and her little family would be out on the streets. Renting out rooms as a bed and breakfast narrowly skirted the issue as those tenants were temporary. Even so, Veronica was cautious about her advertising.

     She studied the bill, debating what to do. Her last guests, many weeks ago, had covered the cost of the bill from the Panschin Gazette with some left over for the lease. Should she renew when there was no guarantee of more paying guests? Veronica sat down on the low wall, moodily running her hands over the granite. The lichens covered the gray granite in shades of soft greens and browns, the blotches making a pattern she could not read.

     At last she sighed and decided to try another month. Optimism demanded that she give the fates a chance to work their magic. There was enough cash left hidden in the cracked cookie jar to try again. Maybe this next ad cycle would bring in paying guests. The biennial mining conference was rapidly approaching so it could happen. That conference always brought a flood of visitors to Panschin and they all had to stay somewhere. Maybe, Veronica smiled at the soft, earthy lichens, those visitors might even come to one of the gallery showings she hosted and buy one of the ugly paintings, earning her a tiny commission. It could happen.


	2. Airik, the Daimyo of Shelleen

     Airik Shelleen didn’t like traveling very much. So many things could go wrong, both on the road and back at home, and so many things were outside of his control, both on the road and back home. He had learned to his cost that if he didn’t oversee things, things didn’t necessarily get done to his satisfaction. To add to his difficulties, not all of his family agreed with how he was running Shelleen despite the knowledge of what the Martian Government could do to his demesne if he failed.

     Increasing his irritation level, he especially didn’t like traveling across a quarter of Mars with an entourage watching his every move. Before everything had blown up, Airik could travel by himself, keeping to his own schedule. If he spotted something interesting, say an unusual rock formation, he could stop and investigate. No more. Worse, all those people kept hovering around him, getting in his way, keeping him from doing his jobs and in general, being a nuisance. In his more paranoid moments, Airik wondered if the people constantly observing him were reporting back to someone else.

     But these days, he had to have an entourage. He had thought about complaining but the response when he did was always the same. Thinking about it now, as he stared out at the passing steppes, he could hear the voices of the senior aunties and uncles of Shelleen, the same ones who took him to task for every mistake, and they all said the same thing.

     “You’re the daimyo, so get used to it! The daimyo of an important demesne like Shelleen doesn’t travel by himself. Who do you think you are? One of those destitute horse lords? They sleep in the stables with their horse rather than spend the coin on a hotel room. Is that what you want? You can’t be seen that way. Nobody will take you seriously and that means nobody will take Shelleen seriously.”

     Airik had pointedly observed that daimyos, no matter how poor, were taken seriously wherever they went. They were still daimyos and the owners of their demesne even if they didn’t have hard coin stacked to the ceilings in their treasury like everyone thought a daimyo did. Nonetheless, he had to agree that he didn’t want to sleep with his horse in some dirty livery stable. A clean bed with clean sheets held far more appeal.

     At least on the train ride north to Panschin, he had the comforts of a private, first-class compartment. That was socially acceptable for someone of his stature. His valet, his secretary, and his bodyguard got to share a compartment, the one right next to his. That was the smallest entourage he had been able to get away with, everyone else having been already sent on to Panschin, and they all got on his nerves. Fortunately, as the daimyo, he didn’t have to share his compartment unless he had work to do.

     There was a lot of work. He and his secretary, Upton, kept busy on the entire endless train ride north, going over briefing papers, reports, and presentations.

     That was another bone of contention within the family, particularly from those members who disapproved of the job he was doing managing Shelleen. Airik had wanted Upton as his secretary but it had raised some eyebrows. Upton was young and good-looking and male. Upton was also the logical choice from the available Shelleen family members, being reasonably capable, efficient, and loyal to the path Airik had deemed necessary to keeping Shelleen intact and unscathed in his dealings with and against the Martian government. Those were the qualities that Airik required in a secretary.

     The dirty minds some people had. He just couldn’t understand it. It grated that an efficient, good-looking young woman would have generated just as much talk, yet somehow would have been more socially acceptable as long as Airik didn’t mind the constant innuendos and double entendres about his secretary working underneath him.

     Upton’s major drawback as a secretary was that he chased anything in a skirt and as he was personable, he often caught them. That was another irritation as it distracted him from the business at hand of the mining contracts but it also implied to one and all that Upton wasn’t interested in his own gender. It took some of the pressure off of Airik in one direction but it added to the pressure in another.

     Airik frowned out the window at the passing steppes. They were slowly greening up as Spring gradually danced north. Normally, the endless seas of grass were soothing. They demanded nothing, unlike the hordes of people he dealt with every day who all wanted something from him. The steppes didn’t despise him for some of the more difficult choices he had made. The steppes had no hidden agendas, nor were they eaten up with jealousy and resentment. The steppes didn’t go out of their way to undercut his decisions as grass cared nothing for the pettiness of human politics. The steppes were uninterested in his private life since the oceans of grass reproduced with the aid of the wind and not that of matchmakers. The steppes did not gossip other than with the wind.

     His family did all of those things.

     The last set of complaints was becoming increasingly onerous to manage, despite the assistance he had provided. He’d been quite specific about what he wanted in a wife. It should have been easy for the aunties in charge of matchmaking to arrange introductions with the detailed checklist he had supplied.

     Airik had to marry, he knew that. He was the head of the family and didn’t have a problem with the institution. Marriage promoted stability within the family, formed tighter bonds between demesnes, brought potential wealth in the form of dowries, and held the promise of children. He just didn’t want to marry someone who was going to cling to him like a leech, keeping him from working, and he really didn’t want someone who was marrying him as a steppingstone to power.

     Plumes of grass had it easy. The wind worked its will, the grass set seed, and the next generation of grass was assured with no effort on anyone’s part. It was clean-cut, with no messy emotions, dubious rationales or money involved. Stones had it even easier. He closed his eyes, remembering how things had changed on his last trip to Barsoom.

     Every day had consisted of contentious, endless meetings and every evening had consisted of formal, endless balls. Even more than the meetings, the balls had been an ordeal. On previous trips to Barsoom Airik could count on being ignored as soon as the music began, leaving early, and getting some sleep to prepare for the next day. Those days were gone. Now, every one of those young and not so young ladies had lit up on seeing him. They weren’t even subtle about showing the credit signs dancing in their eyes. Their families had been even more avaricious. It was impossible to slip out, unobserved.

     It was disconcerting -- due to his newly developed sense of paranoia, no doubt -- that he now wondered if these young, eligible women’s families were looking to get their own cut of Shelleen’s new-found wealth. It was true that Airik was a rarity: a young, unmarried daimyo. That alone would explain the target on his back. The wealth of Shelleen made that target flash like lightning.

     Still more embarrassing was meeting both of his former fiancées. They had both insinuated that they could divorce their current husbands and run away with him back to Shelleen. All he had to do was say the word. Airik rarely rolled his eyes but that had done the trick. Melissa and Bertrille had both told him when they had broken their respective engagements, in almost identical words, what a boring, stiff, dull piece of work he was and that they were overjoyed to shake off the dust of Shelleen and meet better men. Men who were more exciting, men who were wealthier, men who were better connected and had more status. Men who didn’t live at in one of the more boring backwaters of Mars. Men who weren’t him.

     It was amazing how things could change; like sand turning into stone if you only applied enough time and pressure. He had become the most desirable man on Mars without having the so necessary personality transplant that both women had insisted he needed. It had been an ordeal extricating himself from their clutches while remaining polite. To add to his consternation, neither Melissa nor Bertrille seemed to care about any unofficial rivals as long as he was willing to officially share his newfound wealth with _her_ family.

     The Red Mercury lode had catapulted Shelleen from just another agricultural demesne to the most important one above the equator. Red Mercury was vital for the terraforming process, rarely found, and mining it would bring in a huge income for many, many years. Shelleen would be rolling in money.

     There were no negatives at all to discovering the lode, other than his own life being turned completely upside down, the damage done to the peasants he’d forced to settle around the mine, the toxicity released by the mining that would be present for hundreds of years, dealing with rapacious government agents, and last, but not least, the armies of desperate, money-crazed squatters pouring in he now had to keep out of Shelleen.

     That was probably the worst thing, dealing with the squatters, all so eager to strike it rich and not caring at all about the long term environmental damage they did to the demesne he loved with all his heart and soul.

     Of course, the lode _would_ be practically on the border with the government corridor and of course it _would_ be a major government corridor with a railway and roads, and of course it _would_ be many days travel away from the manor house and its surrounding villages through a barren wasteland. If the lode had been in the heart of Shelleen, even though it would have been a long, long way away from anywhere, nobody from outside would have been able to get to it easily.

     But the lode’s location meant that anybody with gumption could just hike the sixty odd klicks across the government corridor from the road, across land Shelleen could not control, slip across _his_ border onto _his_ land, and start trying to mine Red Mercury, poisoning the squatter and the land for all time.

     The only fortunate aspect of the lode’s location was that it was on the northern edge of Shelleen. The horse lords, Kenyatta in particular, were equally opposed to squatters. They didn’t want the Red Mercury spread out on the steppes poisoning the grass and the land for all time. They had been more than willing to work with Shelleen to cut the deal with the Martian government and even now, their irritatingly independent vassals patrolled the corridor, keeping an eye out for unauthorized intrusions.

     Airik had quickly learned to not ask too many questions about what the horsemen did when they found squatters. They kept them out and that was what mattered. Damn free-city trash, coming onto his land, trying to strip it of its wealth and poisoning it as they went. No, he did not ask questions.

     He turned his attention back to the papers in the traveling desk. He needed to review the presentation on refining Red Mercury in situ with Upton, but that meant having Upton back in the compartment, filling it with his restless energy. He was probably prowling the passageways right now, chatting up all the attractive female attendants and unchaperoned passengers, rather than paying attention to his duties.

     Airik wondered what that would be like, to feel so free and easy and relaxed with women. Upton hadn’t married because he didn’t feel the need to buy a cow when so much milk was free and he had said so, to the universal consternation of the family.

     Airik smiled grimly at the papers spread out on the folding desk. If he had to marry for the good of the demesne, then so did Upton. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and drafted a letter to Auntie Zilpah, short and to the point. It was petty and he knew it, but it was something he had some control over. When he finished, Airik sealed the letter. Upton could mail it for him in the tiny post office in the observation car, but there was no need for him to know the contents until it was too late. Auntie Zilpah would rise to the challenge, he was sure, even if she hadn’t yet managed his own marital challenge. She had been particularly offended by Upton’s remarks and should be eager to find _him_ a bride. It might even spur her to greater actions on his own behalf.

     He looked down again at the sealed letter. He had written it hastily. Should he have reminded Zilpah about Upton’s proclivities? Airik signed and decided not to rip it up and write another, more detailed letter. If Zilpah didn’t know that Upton would probably cheat on whomever he married, then she was due to be replaced by someone younger and savvier. She knew, everyone in the family knew, and she was sure to take those facts into account when she selected a candidate for Upton’s bride.

     The train ride, despite the luxuriousness of the compartment, was boring and endless. Staying in the compartment, though small, was still better than trying to get work done in the club car, despite the tables he could commandeer and spread paperwork out on. Since word had gotten around about the Red Mercury lode, Airik had found himself being buttonholed wherever he went by people of every station, all of them with get rich quick schemes guaranteed to work.

     Somehow his bodyguard, Nunzio, never seemed to keep those people far enough away. He claimed they weren’t enough of a threat to break heads open like melons. He insisted that would cause still more trouble for Airik and for Shelleen. They were a threat as far as Airik was concerned. They bothered him and affected his concentration. At least Nunzio, with his hulking presence, intimidated most of the fortune hunters. Only the boldest ones tended to linger.

     Elliot, the valet, had been the easiest person to get along with on the trip. He knew his job -- to keep the party correctly outfitted at all times, and to anticipate whatever was needed for daily living -- and he did it well and efficiently. When he wasn’t working, he wrote in his diary. What he wrote so assiduously, Airik didn’t know and he didn’t care as long as it wasn’t some scurrilous tell-all about Shelleen.

     Airik found himself actually looking forward to Panschin, and not just to get the traveling over with. He had never visited the place. It was a center for mining with many rich lodes of various minerals in the area. Panschin was a free-city, so not under the control of a demesne, and that meant just about anything went.

     For a northern city, so close to the pole, it was large and bustling, and all built under enormous domes and tunnels of glassteel. You could live outdoors in the summer in Panschin and he had been told some people did, but you didn’t live outside in the winter. Not even the horse lords would do that, this far north, and they were proud of their tolerance for dreadful weather.

     There were deep tunnels snaked into the bowels of Mars and Airik was looking forward to touring them and observing the minerals and soils. They would be so different from what he was used to seeing at Shelleen in its own small mining operations. He was hoping to add many prize specimens to his rock collection. That was one very nice benefit about visiting Panschin.

     His contacts were all just as interested with rocks and geology as he was and they understood his fascination with minerals. Nobody here would have their eyes glaze over when he started talking about the different varieties of bauxite, how to mine them efficiently, use them in industry, and then recycle them for reuse.

     That led to thoughts of Auntie Zilpah again. For the family’s main matchmaker, she was doing a terrible job of finding him a wife. Was it too much to ask that a wife not be dismissive of his interests? He didn’t expect a wife to be a rockhound like he was, but the young ladies he had been meeting weren’t even polite about the subject.

     Well, that wasn’t quite true. They were, one and all, fascinated with gemstones. That topic they would discuss endlessly, along with the varieties of gold and silver and platinum they liked their gems to be set in. Jewels did not interest Airik, once he got past their usage in manufacturing, crystalline structure, and how certain chemical impurities would alter their color and hardness, but he seemed to be the only person who felt that way. He also seemed to be the only person who was more interested in the industrial properties of gold or diamonds but again, nobody else he spoke to saw his point of view.

     This handicap of his did not make casual conversation easier with attractive, potential wives.


	3. Miss Shelby Bradwell

     Shelby Bradwell kept her happy-go-lucky smile pinned firmly in place. No, she wouldn’t be able to meet with her classmates at the trendy new restaurant in Dome Six that evening. She had so much homework to do. She didn’t want to get behind in her painting classes. That Professor Vitebskin! What a demanding instructor he was and she sure didn’t want to have to stay late after everyone else had left. This at least, to her relief, was greeted with commiseration. The good professor was a slave-driver, an iconoclastic visionary who tolerated no-one else’s visions if they conflicted with his own, an all-around martinet, and a known lecher. Everybody in the Art Department at PanU could agree on these points and this conversation led away from the conversation that Shelby did not want to have.

     This was the conversation about why she didn’t have the money to do what she wanted, go where she pleased, and dress in fashionably shredded, customized coveralls as opposed to the ones that actual workers bought in mining supply stores and then wore into well-mended rags before replacing them when it was that or go nude.

     It was always such a struggle to fit in, Shelby thought with annoyance and not a little self-pity. It wasn’t like _she_ had done anything wrong. That had been her much missed, deeply resented father. How could he have done that to her and Veronica? And their mother? That was another painful subject, despite the years that had passed since her death. She shoved the memories back into the past.

     Shelby turned away from the rest of the lingering students, not wanting to see the speculation as to her motives, while pretending to study her latest effort. At least this time she had been included in the conversation. That was something positive, unlike her current painting. It was the usual canvas smeared with dismal shades of brown and gray, with hints of mauve and taupe. The shades of brown and gray were expected and approved by Professor Vitebskin. It was the stated goal of his department (and his voice was the only one that counted) that paintings should show to everyone how ugly and gritty a city Panschin was. Shelby could agree with this view, she wanted to agree with this view, if it meant being accepted somewhere and fitting in. But she wanted color too, thus the mauve and taupe. She hoped that the good professor would not notice them or if he did, not think they were too gaudy an addition.

     No matter what she did, Shelby just couldn’t manage to achieve the look _he_ was aiming for and her grade depended upon. She couldn’t tell the difference between her own efforts and those of his preferred students, despite worried and repeated study. Her shades of brown were just as sludgy, her grays as muddy. Perhaps it was her lack of verve in presenting an image she couldn’t bring herself to like or her inability to lay down gossamer layers of translucent paint, each a different shade of scummy water.

     Maybe she just didn’t have the talent she thought she did, or the talent that her family thought she did. She drew all the time, sketching everything around her and Shelby thought she was at least decent. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be the opinion of her instructor. Or maybe, it was because she never let Professor Vitebskin corner her when nobody was around.

     Shelby Bradwell, good grades or not, aching need to be accepted or not, wasn’t going to let that old man ever have a chance to paw at her. If she was careful, he’d never get the chance and she would never have to make an official complaint, thereby drawing unwanted attention to herself and her struggling family. If the hoity-toity people here knew her real situation, she would never be accepted at all, not even on the margin she currently occupied.

     As soon as the subject shifted to who was dating who, Shelby carefully gathered her supplies, escaped to the privacy of the sink, and began washing her brushes. She was fastidious with their care as she could not afford to replace them. Most of them she had found, discarded as damaged by other students who didn’t _have_ to wash brushes carefully when they could just buy new ones. A good cleaning had brought most of them back to usable life. Veronica would be so proud of her, Shelby thought, showing a twist of distaste as she laboriously soaped and scrubbed the bristles clean. You would think she enjoyed the challenges of poverty.

     As soon as she could, Shelby discreetly slipped out of the studio and down the maze of hallways leading to the outside. She might be able to catch Lulu and Florence on their way out and they could walk home together. It was a long walk but the company made it go faster. The metro in the transtube would have been much faster, but that took money none of them had.

     As Shelby worked her way through the chattering mob, she spotted a girl she remembered from the old days when the Bradwells lived in Dome Six, before everything happened, and she had been exiled to Auntie Neza and Dome Two. So that girl was here at PanU. Gleesh. Another person from the past and definitely one to avoid.

     Shelby sighed to herself. Of course that girl was here at PanU. A girl like her wouldn’t be going to PCC as that would be beneath her and she wasn’t ambitious enough to go to the Panschin School of Business. Moreover, that girl, unless she’d had a brain transplant, was nowhere near smart enough to go the Mining and Engineering College of Panschin. PanU was the logical choice and Shelby should have anticipated it. That girl had delighted in the Bradwell’s troubles and if she saw Shelby, she would be sure to spread around the old stories causing new pain. Shelby carefully veered down another hallway, stopping to read posters about an upcoming dance recital so her back was to the mob of students. She took a moment to rearrange the bulletin board to move the art show poster front and center. A few minutes later and the chance for discovery passed.

     Once outside, moving around unobserved was easier and far more pleasant. Panschin University was a beautiful campus, with many actual strips of mowed grass lawn to lie on and stare up at the dome so far overhead, pretending it was the sky. There were even small trees dotted among the fancifully carved and decorated stone buildings, along with gaudy flower beds.

Shelby stopped and stared longingly at the marigolds. Their brilliant yellow flowers, splashed with red and orange speckles, glowed against their deep green feathery leaves. She would love to use those colors in her paintings. She smirked, thinking of Professor Vitebskin’s reaction to such lurid hues. Even if she were to agree to a torrid affair with the old lecher, he would still probably fail her for using such blatant colors in a painting. Shelby sighed and turned away, looking for Florence and Lulu, emerging onto the surface from their own school’s tunnels. They would appreciate the marigolds.

     PanU was the finest school in Panschin – the school’s paperwork said so all the time -- but it wasn’t the only one she could have attended. Shelby had been lucky to be accepted here although she was unclear as to how Veronica and Auntie Neza were paying for it. It must be scholarship money, she had finally decided, the one she had won with her portfolio although no one official had ever said so to her. The university officials must have not wanted to embarrass her in front of the rest of the student body. If it hadn’t been for winning the scholarship, Shelby would be going to Panschin Community College like Lulu and Florence. PCC was conveniently co-located with PanU so it would be easy to meet up with them at the main entrance to both campuses.

     PanU’s buildings were all above ground while PCC was located underneath in classrooms carved into the tunnels. The two entrances were close together: a grand, carved stone arch for PanU and a far less noticeable staircase leading down under into the catacombs of PCC. The two schools did share the library, the swimming pool, the gymnasium, and a few other, very expensive facilities. Otherwise, they were completely separate schools. It was, however, an open secret that some of the untenured faculty at PanU also taught classes at PCC. It was also known that some students took classes at both schools, although the PanU students didn’t usually admit to doing such a thing to save face.

     Florence and Lulu were waiting at the stone archway and Shelby hurried to join them. The light was still good and she would be able to finish another attempt at meeting Professor Vitebskin’s requirements when she got home to the rooftop studio. Studio was a fine word for her end of the rooftop terrace. It held a battered dresser for supplies, a chair, and an easel, but it was hers. It was here that she kept her most special paintings hidden, the ones she had not shown to anyone. They were carefully stacked behind the dresser, filling the empty space between it and the rooftop’s enclosing wall. She only worked on those paintings when no one was around to comment or criticize her subject. She didn’t know if she would ever be brave enough to bring them into the studios at PanU for evaluation by the perilous and acute gaze of Professor Vitebskin.

     As the girls walked along, Shelby filled them in on the upcoming gallery show. This was the big quarterly show and would even include one of her own paintings. One benefit of living in the White Elephant with Auntie Neza and Veronica was the vast amount of empty space available. Shelby had taken full advantage and arranged with the PanU Artists’ Collective to use the White Elephant’s ballroom to show everyone’s current work. This action had gone a long way to ensuring that Shelby, despite her lack of acceptable talent, was accepted as one of the group. After some discussion, Veronica and Auntie Neza had agreed to the scheme when Veronica had realized that they could charge for the use of the space. The Artists’ Collective paid with free labor, whitewashing the White Elephant, a commission on any paintings sold (sadly very few), and a small fee to cover snacks. Another small fee was collected at the door from attendees whenever they had a show. This last fee was split between the Collective and the White Elephant so they both made some money.

     It worked out, even if Shelby thought that Veronica came across as too much of a money-grubber and not enough of a patron of the arts. When she had said so, Veronica had laughed and said she didn’t charge enough to hang ugly smears on the walls of her home and then have the nerve to ask for money for them. So did Auntie Neza, Florence, and Lulu. It was another irritation in Shelby’s life, living with people who didn’t understand fine art.

     She wondered if any of them would ever try to see what being accepted meant to her, seeing as how they rejected the paintings as being ugly smears of mud. Shelby chewed on a fingernail as the little group made its way down the sidewalk, passing by planters spilling over with deep purple smiling pansies. The paintings, if she was honest, were ugly smears of mud. There were so many prettier colors in the world and prettier things to paint. It would be a pleasure to try and capture those pansies and their expressions. When people passed by the planters, the breeze from their body’s movements made the pansies dance ever so slightly, as though they did pay attention to their surroundings.

     Who would understand what had happened to her? It had hurt so much to go from a secure place in the world to one in which she had learned, at great cost, that if circumstances changed acceptance would disappear. All her friends at school had dropped her immediately when her father’s malfeasance had come to light. His suicide and her mother’s death had not brought any of those people back, not even to the funerals. And when she had moved to Dome Two, nothing had improved. The new school in Dome Two had been difficult. Nobody there had ever really accepted her. She had always been on the outside looking in. At least she could lose herself in drawing and painting. The very limited art classes had been the only place where Shelby had felt welcome and then only when she was working. Outside those classrooms, nothing improved. She still wasn’t one of the residents of Dome Two and she never would be.

     Who would ever accept her fully, as she was? Shelby walked along with Florence and Lulu, envying them. They had plans for the future. They were both studying nursing, they had boyfriends, they had family, they had friends who visited when they could. She knew it was petty of her to feel this way. Florence and Lulu lived in the White Elephant because they paid for room and board with housekeeping and a few credits here and there. They didn’t have the status the Bradwells used to have. Now, in a way, they had a far more secure place in the world than Shelby did.

     As they walked, Shelby noticed a big, dark-haired man noticing her and Florence and Lulu. He strode along down the street like his bright future, unlike hers, was assured. He would be easy to sketch, with his high cheekbones and strong chin, but capturing his confident air, pinning him to paper for all time, would be harder.

     Would her situation ever improve, Shelby wondered? Did she have a chance at the future she dreamed of, like that confident man so obviously did? It could happen, she supposed. And in the meantime, she had a home, the planted areas were alive with a thousand shades of green, the marigolds were the most vibrant yellows ever, and spring had made Dome Two pleasant again after the dreary winter. She could enjoy all those things and that would have to be enough.


	4. Mr. Malcolm Cobb

     Malcolm Cobb did his best to hang onto a blank, noncommittal, blandly smiling face. He did not clench his fists although he wanted to. He worked hard to look nonthreatening, although due to his size and build that was more challenging. He succeeded, as always, due to long, long practice. Gods below but he hated these people. They would not, could not accept that he was smarter, as well educated, as skilled in finances as they were. He was a scholarship boy, taken from the mining community based on his abilities. His brains and talent were co-opted for the greater good of Panschin. Talent such as his, a scarce and valuable resource or so he was told, was not to be wasted.

     Yet this branch manager lounging before him with his soft gentleman’s hands, a man who owed his position in life solely to his good fortune in choosing the right family when born, a man who had never held a job he had striven for, sneered at him. Desmond Wong had been given everything he ever had even as he firmly believed that it was all due to his own, herculean efforts. This fine gentleman would not have lasted a single day below Panschin, in the deep-down mining shafts and tunnels, wiggling his way through those narrow, stuffy, badly lit passages, in search of the ores that made the city the second richest on Mars.

     But he didn’t know that. He would never know that. His position in life ensured the risk would never cross his mind. And in the meantime, the branch manager of the Second National Bank of Panschin looked over Malcolm Cobb, searching for a trace of grime or dust that would betray his origins as a miner.

     “So you work for me now. Here in Dome Two,” the balding manager said, his voice betraying the slightest lisp. Malcolm wondered if that sibilance was an affectation of the manager’s class or something he was born with. He still hadn’t decided as so many of the other, higher status students he had met at the fancy school had those lisps, but only when they felt like it. The lisp, like knowing the right way to hold a pair of gilded chopsticks, might be one of those tells, denoting one’s admittance into the upper reaches of society. Or maybe he was just being paranoid and resentful. That was an easy pit to fall into and a hard one to escape as he knew to his cost.

     “Yes, sir, I do,” Malcolm answered calmly and confidently. “I’m looking forward to it. It is a privileged assignment to be here in Dome Two with a man of your stature.”

     He wondered if he had laid it on too thick. Dome Two had not been a high-status location in the Second National Bank of Panschin in decades, but it would not do _him_ any good to point this out to his new supervisor. He had to work with the man, after all, and the manager could harm him in a multitude of unseen ways.

     Mr. Wong preened complacently and Malcolm thought, ‘nope, not too thick. What an idiot. Doesn’t understand that Dome Six is the place to be, or at least Dome Five. Our exalted supervisors dumped both of us here. Him because he’s incompetent and me because they want to hide me.’

     Mr. Wong, mollified at Malcolm’s understanding how lucky they both were to be assigned to the branch in Dome Two, as opposed to say, Dome Three, Dome One or (worst of all) Dome Four, roused himself from his expensive throne to lead Malcolm on a tour of the branch office. It was, Malcolm observed, a very nice chair. It was also a chair that had been installed decades ago, when the branch was new, and it was no longer fashionable. Floral brocade was the preferred upholstery now, not blue gingham velvet. Yes, his manager was an idiot if he didn’t realize that. He smiled inwardly. An idiot who could be managed while he, Malcolm, showed just how skilled he was to the people who mattered higher up.

     The branch office was as he expected it to be, matching the manager’s office. It was a formerly grand building, now slightly down at heels, reflecting the lowered status of everything within Dome Two. All the furbishing within was shabby, containing the telltale signs of poor maintenance. Terraformers had crept within, colonizing corners and backs of chairs, laying a new pattern on the carpet outside of the normal paths for foot traffic.

     Mr. Wong introduced Malcolm to the staff, all of whom from tellers to loan officers to the office secretary, had that slight air of having seen better days elsewhere. They also, all of them, already knew who he was and where he came from. To a man or woman, they all took a surreptitious glance at his hands, looking for dirty nails showing he had just come out from underneath. Snobby idiots the lot of them, thinking he didn’t know better.

     Malcolm had in fact recently spent a few days underneath in the deep down, toiling alongside his father and uncle in the Steelio shafts. He needed the money and they needed the help but this was a fact he had learned long ago to never disclose. A good, thorough scrub along with some reasonable care meant his hands never betrayed him, as long as the observer didn’t know what calluses meant. He smiled and made small talk with his new co-workers, making sure they knew he was clever, amiable, and ready to work.

     The day finally ended, promptly at three, and he headed out into the watery sunshine penetrating the yellowed glassteel of the dome. Malcolm had already found a room in one of the many boarding houses in Dome Two. He knew better than to say so, but he had never seen so large and grand a house before, even if it was divided up into a warren of rooms. The price was right, he didn’t have to share, his room was above ground, and it was an easy walk from the branch bank.

     As he walked along, he studied his surroundings with great interest. He had never been in Dome Two before, other than school trips to the Panschin Museum of Art and other similar cultural outposts too large and too expensive to relocate. The neighborhood was astonishing, both large and surprisingly green. Most amazing of all, the houses had actual, tiny yards surrounding them. Dome Six, _the_ place to live in Panschin, had no such thing. Even the richest, most high-caste citizens lived in towers. Very grand towers to be sure, at least from what he could observe from the outside, but Dome Six did not provide gardens to go with each of the luxury apartments in the gilded towers. All the units in a tower shared a single small greensward and a rooftop terrace no matter how many people lived there. A tenant might be wealthy enough to lease an apartment that spanned an entire floor of a building, but any private outside space was provided by a balcony.

     Malcolm Cobb studied the buildings carefully as he walked by them. These had been luxurious symbols of wealth when they were built and despite the lack of upkeep, most of them were holding up surprisingly well. Most of them had been subdivided, as his own boarding house had, either into miniscule flats or into single occupancy rooms with negotiated privileges. It all depended on what the lease said. As he worked his way down the wide paved streets flanked at intersections by planters spilling over with flowers, he observed the other people around him. He wondered if they all lived here in Dome Two. How many of them had accounts at the local branch of his bank?

     He stopped to stare at a particularly grand house, one that had not been chopped up. It had a very attractive garden around it and unusual for Panschin, an ostentatious pseudo-roof edging the rooftop terrace made up of pink and gray tile arranged in stripes. Even more unusual, this house had been whitewashed a blinding white, the evidence of that care still showing between the patches of terraformers. It was not thickly carpeted from top to bottom with ubiquitous lichens trying desperately to colonize every flat surface as every other building in Panschin normally had. Somebody regularly worked hard to scrape the building clean of its constantly regrowing sweater.

     Malcolm knew from school that the domes and tunnels allowed a semblance of normal life this far north, but it came with a price. Because life was so unnatural within the domes, the terraformers were able to compete against the planted vegetation in a way they could no longer do outside. There, the soil was too rich, the air too pure and sweet. Inside the domes, the air was thin enough, despite the ventilation, that the terraformers weren’t just everywhere. They were still needed. It also meant that wasting diseases were more prevalent in Panschin than they were closer to the equator.

     As he admired the house, Malcolm suddenly saw his way to proving himself to those supervisors who had attempted to bury him forever in Dome Two. He knew that Panschin wouldn’t be building more domes anytime soon. The cost was stunning and however rich Panschin was, money like that wasn’t available. However, the population was expanding. Many of those newcomers would refuse to live in the tunnels below. They had to live somewhere and Dome Two had more open space than he had ever seen. Moreover, every important cultural building in Panschin was still located in Dome Two as they couldn’t be moved. He ticked them off mentally one by one. It was quite a list.

     He took a deep breath, filling his nose and lungs with the air of Dome Two. The ventilation was indifferent but perhaps that could be fixed. It wasn’t much different from Dome Six as far as he could tell, perhaps a bit fresher due to the masses of terraformers all around. The dome overhead was yellowed but perhaps that could be fixed too. If those things could be done, then the housing stock in Dome Two would suddenly be recognized for what it was: drastically undervalued.

     Malcolm Cobb showed his teeth at the noticeably white house rising in front of him, the raked gravel paths surrounding garden beds full of what even he knew were real plants and not terraformers. As the assistant manager of the local branch of the Second National Bank of Panschin, he was in charge of all the leases on all of their properties here in Dome Two. It had been obvious from the start that the local branch was a dying backwater for hacks and has-beens. It was doubtful that any of the leases had been reviewed in decades. Were any of those leases up for renewal? Were any of the lease holders in default of their sworn obligations to the bank, the government of Panschin, or the underlying authority: the Martian government? The Martian Government owned every bit of Mars, other than what was held by the Four Hundred families on their demesnes. All that property was rented, on exceedingly long-term leases to be sure, but the lease holders didn’t _own_ those properties, not even the century holders. Leases could be sold and swapped and they were, but as the sworn representative of the Martian Government, the bank was supposed to be notified of any changes.

     This would be his self-chosen job here in Dome Two. He, Malcolm Cobb, would show his versatility, his ability to make money, his ruthlessness, and his skill at detecting opportunity that others ignored. He’d make piles of money for the bank, get all the accounts brought up to date, and maybe, just maybe, those double damned snobs in the hierarchy would see his value.

     It could happen.

     Malcolm turned and began walking up the street towards where he thought his boarding house was located. He thought of the quiet, drab room waiting for him. It was his, he didn’t have to share, but he didn’t fit in with the low-caste workers who lived there. Not anymore. He didn’t fit in at the bank. He hadn’t fitted in at school, nor had he fit in at the Panschin School of Business. He didn’t fit in very well with his family down in the tunnels nor did he fit in, not anymore, in the deep down.

     If he had not been tapped so long ago because of his intellect, he would have married by now, perhaps even had a child. He would be still be part of his family, valued by them and valued by Steelio for the work he could do. His family loved him and valued him but he wasn’t really part of them anymore either. He was split between too many worlds. Would he fit in here, in Dome Two? It could happen. He would make it happen. And maybe, he would come to be valued for himself, for what he had to offer.

     Maybe, he thought as he noticed the trio of pretty young women on the street walking by, he would even meet someone who didn’t see him as a meal ticket like the girls from the tunnels did or an exciting, risk-free chance to slum like the sisters and cousins of the upper-caste students did. That would be really nice and as long as he was daydreaming, he could think about possibilities. Those girls, they had a future full of possibilities.

     Malcolm would not and could not marry a girl from the tunnels. A tunnel girl would never be accepted in his new world and neither would their children. A girl from above would be accepted, if she was of high enough caste, by the class he was trying to enter, but a girl like that would never accept him, or his family left behind in the tunnels. He would not, could not walk away from them and pretend that he had never been raised in the deep down under Panschin. It was part of him and that would never change.

 


	5. Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel

 

     The train finally pulled into the large, central station in Panschin, far too early in the morning. The sun had not yet broken over the horizon, the early light doing nothing other than to illuminate dark shapes against a darker backdrop. As a result of the train’s pre-dawn arrival, the dining car had moved its breakfast service hours earlier than normal. It was disruptive to the digestion but this did have the benefit of keeping the other passengers subdued, quiet, and uninterested in bothering Airik with yet another set of get-rich-quick schemes while he ate.

     He was hopeful that whatever transportation the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel had arranged for his party would be swift, discreet, and quiet. He had made a point of asking for such a service so the odds were in his favor. While waiting for the hotel’s transportation – he was unsure of how businesses in Panschin handled such things – to arrive, Airik took a moment to look around at his first glimpse of the free-city. The other disembarking passengers were moving around in a sleep-deprived fog and, amazingly, ignoring him despite him standing out in the open on the station’s platform. Elliot was seeing to the baggage, Upton was eyeing an attractive passenger he had spent most of the journey chatting up to no avail, while Nunzio stood behind him looking threatening so there was no-one to bother him while he took in the view.

     The train had plunged into the tunnel leading into Panschin while it was still full dark so Airik had no idea if all the frills and signs welcoming high-spending guests were located there, although he now doubted that any effort had been made. The city’s management had not made any effort _here_ , where no incoming visitor could miss signs for the local attractions and sights so why would they bother to put up billboards outside? It did not make for a good first impression, either for maintenance or forethought on the part of the local government.

     The Panschin train station and the gateway to the free-city were decidedly unimpressive.

     He turned around very slowly, observing carefully what the free-city had chosen to do. The station was much smaller than Airik would have expected given Panschin’s importance, and very poorly lit. It was the second largest free-city on Mars so he had expected something more on the scale of the immense central station in Barsoom. That train station and central transportation hub was designed to awe and impress visitors with Barsoom’s wealth, importance, good taste, and power. Every single aspect of the Barsoom train station that Airik had observed on many trips there said ‘kneel, peasant, before your betters and marvel at how we do things in the heart of the empire’.

     Panschin did things differently. The free-city’s management must have decided there was no reason to spend any money to either impress or inform new arrivals of the wonders of Panschin. It appeared that the entire station was underground, rather than occupying precious space within any of the free-city’s famous domes. The train depot’s ceiling was dingy and overgrown with splotchy lichens, their spidery growth creeping across the many skylights, making them appear to be even smaller than they were. The many light fixtures also had their webbings of terraformers, ensuring the train station was dimmer than it should have been.

     The walls were likewise blotchy, the bas-relief carvings obscured by the growth of unchecked terraformers. It was difficult to tell what dramatic Panschin founding story the original builders intended to relate with their bas-reliefs and statues. They were shaggy with moss and bizarrely colored by lichens so any identifying details were obscured.

     He had also not expected to see such an array of terraformers covering almost every flat surface. That was interesting, and strange. The scientist within him, never far from the surface, was intrigued and ready to investigate further. Airik looked around more carefully and noticed that, unlike the walls and ceilings, the seating in the waiting areas did not appear to be coated with lichens. That demanded a closer look.

     From what he could observe, the rows of seats, carefully divided into sections for the different classes of passengers as evidenced by their design – actual chairs, benches with backs, and plain benches, accessorized by a range of padding from thick to non-existent - were clean of terraformers. Probably, Airik surmised, this was due to the bodies of said passengers wiping them clean when they sat down and got up again. It was a reasonable assumption since little cleaning and removal of terraformers had been done anywhere else. The floors were clear but that was undoubtedly due to constant foot traffic wearing away anything that tried to grow.

     He walked over to the first-class seating, conveniently both the closest waiting area and the one most likely to be kept up properly. If terraformers were here, they would be present everywhere in Panschin. Airik crouched down to check a first-class seating chair-back. Its upholstery of green brocade leaves remained bright but as he neared the underside where only the most scrupulous janitor would clean, the fabric pattern disappeared under a layer of lichens.

     Airik frowned. It had not occurred to him that Panschin, a city of domes and tunnels, would provide some of the best remaining habitat on Mars for terraformers, wherever there was any sunlight to fuel its growth. There wouldn’t be much competition from other plants here, nor insects to eat them. He took a deep breath -- drawing the train station’s air into his lungs -- then blew it out slowly. Then another. Then another, each time assessing what he sensed. The air was subtly different in how it felt, tasted, smelled, from what he remembered of the train’s air. That air had been changed repeatedly, even when the windows weren’t being opened by the passengers, freshening it every time. It was the next best thing to being outside.

     This air now. He wrinkled his nose, then coughed. This air, Airik breathed in and out again, this air reminded him of being underground in a mining tunnel. It wasn’t stale but it had an odd, off tang and it was more still than even the calmest day could be. It had plenty of oxygen as the terraformers were doing their job but it wasn’t like being outside. Hmm. An interesting consideration and something he had not thought of when researching Panschin. None of the literature had mentioned it; not in the boosterism pumped out by the Chamber of Commerce and also not within the more scholarly literature the Panschin Department of Mining had sent him.

     What else did he not know about Panschin?

     Airik ran his hand over the station wall behind him. It too had a thin film of lichens covering it, although it looked like the wall had been regularly swept down based on the skeletal patterns their remains made against its pale gray surface. Hmmm again. He looked up again at the skylights and light fixtures. How fast did the terraformers grow? Those areas had to be swept down regularly as otherwise, based on what he knew, the terraformers would completely block any light in their desperate attempt to survive. Hmm. What would it be like to live surrounded by terraformers thicker than they were anywhere else on Mars? How did they keep the domes clean? This would be something else to observe while he was visiting the city.

     “There they are. At last,” Upton said, breaking his reverie.

     Airik turned to see a large, smartly painted and gilded vehicle pull up to where his party was standing. The name and logo of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel were emblazoned in scarlet on both sides and across the front in big, impossible to miss letters, contrasting strongly with the metallic, highly reflective silvery body.

     To his surprise, it was powered electrically, something he would not have expected as horses, even in Barsoom, were so much less expensive for an individual vehicle. This vehicle was as ostentatious as possible, demanding envious, resentful attention from anyone it passed. Who could afford to waste electricity on transportation that didn’t move dozens of people at a time?

     To his dismay, all the other passengers who had disembarked with his own party turned from collecting their baggage, meeting relatives, or dealing with train station employees to stare, and worse, noticed him. Some of them, despite their fatigue, started moving towards him with gleaming eyes and glad-handing smiles and promises about sure things already on their lips.

     To his horror, the driver stood up in his position high at the front end and called out loudly over the murmur of voices,

     “My lord Shelleen! Make way for the Daimyo of Shelleen, now an honored guest of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel!” The driver’s voice echoed throughout the train station, ensuring that anyone who hadn’t woken up to the presence of a wealthy, potential sucker was now alert and paying attention.

     Airik frowned harder. He had specifically informed the hotel that he did not want to be singled out. Could they not follow as basic an instruction as that?

     Upton, seeing his boss’s mood swiftly change for the worse, said, “We better get moving. Nunzio! Elliot! Get the bags.”

     Airik marched over to the shouting driver. He and an assistant were both wearing what appeared to be silver metallic jumpsuits, more formfitting than a coverall, lavishly trimmed at every single seam and edge with screaming lime green piping, an overabundance of glittery scarlet buttons, and of course, the logo and name of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel on both chest and back. The name was embroidered in more glittery scarlet down the sides of both sleeves and pant legs where anyone with taste would have left a simple stripe of color.

     “My lord Shelleen! Welcome to the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel!” the driver boomed out, his voice echoing up towards the ceiling and filling the space. He stayed put on top of a shelf-like projection at the front of the vehicle to be better heard and seen by anyone with the vicinity. He waved cheerfully to the staring crowd. “I am ecstatic to be your driver today, bringing you to the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel!”

     “What is the meaning of this?” Airik demanded, glaring up at the driver looming overhead. “I specifically requested discreet, quiet transportation.”

     “I _am_ being discreet, my lord Shelleen. Just as _you_ requested. The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel prides itself on accommodating every conceivable need of its fortunate and pampered guests,” the driver answered. He beamed down at Airik showing every one of his silvery teeth, then picked up a shiny scarlet metallic pennant to wave at the crowd of onlookers. At no time did he lower his voice one bit. His assistant waved as well, using a shiny silver metallic banner that flashed in the early light.

     “For everyone else here, the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel will be happy to accommodate all of you as well! If you haven’t already made your reservations, please consider us first! No other hotel in Panschin can take care of you like the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel can,” the driver proclaimed to his slack-jawed audience.

     “Discreet? How is this discreet?” Airik said icily.

     The driver grinned evilly. “Yes sir, my lord Shelleen! I will be happy to show you how the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel accommodates every possible guest need!” He nodded to his assistant who reached inside the vehicle’s window and pushed a glowing red button.

     Instantly, the silvery white vehicle began playing loud music with plenty of cymbals, drums, and piccolos, while a recorded chorus sang about the wonders of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. Hidden lights began to flash from the vehicle top around the station, illuminating the far reaches with rotating spotlights that showed off even better the poor maintenance on the train station. They changed color as well, multicolored disks of lights chasing each other across the ceiling, walls, platform, and furnishings of the train station as well as the agog passengers and bystanders. Many of them actually retreated under the onslaught.

     “Your point is made,” Airik spat out. “Turn everything off and get us out of here.”

     “Yes sir, my lord Shelleen!” The driver jumped down from his perch, reached inside, pressed the flashing red button and mercifully, the sound and light system stopped blaring out into the train station, filling it with noise and color, and demonstrating ever more clearly how poorly maintained it was.

     “The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel is always ready to accommodate you!”

     Airik said, very coldly, “Then is it possible for you to stop saying ‘the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel’ with every sentence?”

     “No sir, my lord Shelleen! It’s my job if I don’t repeat the name of the finest hotel in Panschin, the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel, at every conceivable opportunity.” The driver grinned cheerily at Airik. “I’ve got kids and you don’t want them to starve, do you? The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel keeps them fed. We _love_ the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel and you will too.” He winked at Airik.

     Fortunately, by this time, Elliot and Nunzio had gotten the bags stowed away safely. Airik took his seat inside the plush upholstery – no sign of terraformers here on the freshly scrubbed acid-green leather trimmed in more glittery scarlet and silver and lavishly printed with the hotel’s logo – and sat back, his back rigid. He made himself unclench his fists and spread his hands out on his trousers.

     “A soothing beverage, my lord Shelleen?” the driver’s assistant asked, holding up a crystal glass etched with the hotel’s logo in one hand and a bottle of something presumably alcoholic in the other, also adorned with the hotel logo. He shook the glass, making the ice tinkle within it. Each cube appeared to be imprinted with the hotel’s logo although it was hard to tell without looking closer, something Airik wasn’t about to do.

     “No extra charge for you! The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel wants you to be happy!”

     “No,” Airik said. “Get us to the hotel at once and do not speak again unless I ask for something.”

     “Yes sir, my Lord Shelleen! The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel is always happy to oblige every need!”

****

     To Airik’s immense relief, he was able to spend some of the ride in a fuming silence, after he pointedly informed both driver and assistant that he would provide a large tip only if they shut up about the wonders of Panschin and how the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel would ensure his VIP access to each and every attraction they passed the nanosecond he indicated any interest in said venue. Airik rapidly discovered that a flick of his eye towards a sign was all that was necessary to start the spiel.

     Sadly, he could do nothing about the sound and light display the vehicle provided for passers-by at every intersection on the roadway through the maze of transportation tubes that led from the train station to Dome Six and the hotel. The driver cheerfully insisted that Panschin regulations required any motorized vehicle put on a display to warn other traffic of its presence since most of said traffic was unused to sharing the roadways. Airik glared out the vehicle’s windows and it did seem to be true: everyone else he observed was walking, riding a bamboo bicycle, on skates or rolling boards of some kind, being hauled in a rickshaw, or, occasionally, riding high above the crowd in a palanquin. There were no other cars at all and more surprisingly, no animal-provided transportation of any kind. Alongside the roadways long, open-sided train cars ran at regular intervals on dedicated rails. He surmised it was some kind of trolley system to transport people back and forth for longer distances, probably electrical in nature.

     Airik was sure that every single person they passed turned to stare at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel electric car. He resolved then and there to avoid using whatever transportation the hotel provided, despite guessing he would be charged for its mere availability whether he used it or not. Even a palanquin would be more discreet than what he was riding in now. They had curtains to conceal their privileged occupant from the mob and didn’t use a precious resource that could be better spent on almost anything else that would be more beneficial to the citizens.

     He wondered if the hotel had palanquins and then decided that it was likely and equally likely they were as gaudily painted as the electric car he was currently trapped in. Worse, based on his minutes of experience with the hotel, their palanquins probably came with uniformed criers strutting in front and back, shouting out the name of the hotel and the rider inside. The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel didn’t seem to know the meaning of the words ‘privacy’ and ‘quiet’.

     The trip took far longer than he would have thought an electric car would take to drive the distance between the train station and Dome Six. Since the entire journey took place in a maze of indifferently lit transportation tunnels (only billboards were well-lit) Airik had no idea if the driver took a more roundabout route to show off the billboard he was riding in. There was nothing he could do about the situation, except fume and pray for a quick arrival at their destination. The maniacally grinning driver and his relentlessly cheery assistant were just doing their jobs, something they repeatedly assured him whenever he questioned some new irritation.

     All of this made the built-in bar more inviting. Airik restrained himself, not wanting to put himself into the grasp of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel anymore than he already had. His glare at Upton kept his secretary in check, although it did not stop Upton from gazing longingly at the well-stocked bar every time the sound system revived itself. Interestingly, Nunzio and Elliot were studiously ignored as though they didn’t fill the back of the vehicle. They were part of Airik’s entourage, yet since they were servants, they didn’t exist.

     It was a painful reminder of his previous life, when Shelleen was just another agricultural backwater to be ignored and he was a minor member of its minor family and thus equally unworthy of notice. He used to travel as he needed to, on his own schedule, with free time to pursue his own hobby of rock-hunting. No one cared about Airik and he remained in happy anonymity.

     The discovery of the Red Mercury lode catapulted Shelleen to wealthy prominence. No member of the family escaped notice anymore. And for him, being named daimyo, necessary though it was, ensured that he wore a target on his back. He was Airik Shelleen, daimyo of a demesne that was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, controlled resources vital for the terraforming of Mars and thus made life itself possible, young, and unmarried. Everyone cared and it was only getting worse.

     All this made Airik wonder uneasily what was waiting for him at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel and the mining conference. He pushed the thought away, since there was nothing he could do about it yet and focused on the walls of the tunnels visible through the windows of the electric car and tried to see if they revealed anything of their geologic nature. The indifferent lighting defeated him. He found himself patting at his jacket pocket where his trusty rock-hammer and chisel waited patiently in their leather sheath for an interesting rock formation. The head of the hammer made thoughts of smacking it into the head of the driver rise up as _he_ was now engaged in shouting out the open window at a group of young men in shabby coveralls who were refusing to get out of the way. Together, driver and surly, dirty men made the air turn blue. Airik regretfully but firmly squashed that vision.

     Finally, the driver took a turn, accompanied by a louder fanfare than usual and a spray of lights like fireworks, into a new, wider, tunnel. This tunnel was maintained far better, its skylights clear of terraformers and its walls (where there were no billboards to conceal them) were painted white to maximize the ambient light. Any hint of the rock beneath had been banished. There were far more pedestrians of every variety, and if Airik was any judge of rude hand gestures and annoyed faces, all of them openly resented being pushed out of the roadway and off to the shoulders by the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel electric car. Fortunately, any curses were muffled by the car’s own sound system, now turned up since it had to be louder in this bigger space in order to be heard clearly. Or so the driver insisted.

     The tunnel gradually leveled itself up to a still wider opening and the car emerged at last into the watery, early morning sunshine of Dome Six. The car’s fanfare and lights, still on to warn off foot traffic, were mercifully lost within the dome’s space. Airik had never been claustrophobic, he couldn’t be and go underground, but it was still a relief to get out of Panschin’s tunnels.

     The journey was not over. The driver insisted on taking a long, circuitous trip through Dome Six as ‘he was allowed to drive only on certain roadways that were wide enough and did my lord Shelleen wish to stop at any point and see the sights recommended by the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel?’

     Airik was desperate to get out of the hotel’s vehicle but not desperate enough to prolong the agony of remaining trapped in the driver’s clutches in a city that, despite prior study, he was quickly realizing he knew nothing about.

     “The hotel. Now.”

     The driver looked disappointed for a moment, as did his assistant, and then the maniacal grins reasserted themselves. “Yes sir, my lord Shelleen! The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel awaits you!”

     Another long, slow drive down a wide street crowded with resentful, early morning traffic that did not want to make way led at last to the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. Like the other buildings they had driven past, it rose five stories into the air and was crowned by a rooftop terrace. The walls of the hotel were more open windows than walls but walls did exist. They were luridly painted in lime green and scarlet, trimmed out in shiny silver that reflected every bit of the light back like sunlit water. Airik gratefully climbed out of the car and stared for a moment, wondering how the hotel kept the terraformers from caking every part of the building. The glassteel dome rose high above the hotel, slightly yellowed and mottled. The morning sun was somewhere on the other side of the dome but it was hard to tell exactly where and how high it had risen. The sun’s light was scattered and diffused by the dome.

     More surprisingly, now that he had a chance to look around without being harassed about sightseeing, the hotel was hemmed in by other, equally lacy over-painted buildings separated by wide, paved paths.

     “The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel has a lawn, my lord Shelleen!” the driver shouted into his ear, making him start.

     The driver pointed towards a patch of grass spread out besides the paved walkway leading to the elaborate decorated, huge front doors. It was brilliant green, the first plant green other than algae Airik had noticed since arriving in Panschin, and the size of a large conference table. “Because you are our honored guest, you will be allowed to step on the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel’s lawn! Not every guest is allowed this signal privilege!”

     Airik stared in disbelief at the grass patch and then at the driver. “That won’t be necessary. Upton! Get us inside now.”

     As his party made their way inside, between two rows of bowing bellmen all of whom were wearing dazzling silver uniforms and had their hands out, Airik sorted through his muddled glimpses of Dome Six. He came to the conclusion that all the vegetation had been in planters. Large ones in some cases to be sure, but still just large pots. Bright flowers, lacy shrubs with multi-colored leaves, even a few very small trees but everything had been in a pot. Up until this moment, with the hotel’s lawn, he had not seen a single plant growing in soil in the ground. Everything was paved in one form or another. How strange.

     Inside, the lobby was a festival of bright colors and noise. A pianist played in the corner, the sounds of some atonal melody Airik had never heard before rising above the chatter of conversation and clashing with the sounds of splashing fountains. All the upholstery was in the hotel’s signature colors of acidic greens and scarlet with silver trim. Every wall was finished with silver and white stripes to better show off the paintings, most of which looked like smears of mud as seen from a distance. Chandeliers sparkled and glittered, filling the space with eye-searing light compared to the much dimmer outside.

     The concierge came bustling around the marble check-in desk and greeted Airik effusively. His uniform had more buttons than Airik had ever seen on a single garment, all scarlet. The buttons closest to the concierge’s throat flashed on and off.

     “My lord Shelleen!” the concierge proclaimed. “It is such an honor to have you stay with us at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel! Your every wish is our command! We want you to be happy, _happy_ , _**happy**_!”

     “I will be happy to get into our suite,” Airik replied. “I assume my staff from Shelleen is waiting for me?”

     “Yes sir, my lord Shelleen! Your party has the finest suite the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel has to offer. We cater to every possible need.”

     “Then why am I still standing here?”

     “My lord Shelleen!” The concierge looked hurt, his eyes welling with tears and his lip quivering. “The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel provides every possible amenity and I have to be sure you know about them! For starters, do you require intimate company? We have a staff of willing young ladies all of whom will be happy to make _you_ happy. Just tell me what you prefer in a young lady and she – or they! -- will ensure your happiness and comfort in your suite here at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel.”

     Airik gawked at the concierge for a moment before finding his voice. “No. Absolutely not.”

     “Sir! We can accommodate other preferences if our delightful young ladies are not to your personal taste.” The concierge winked and smirked. “We are absolutely discreet at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel no matter who or what you select!”

     “No!”

     “Yes sir, of course sir. And you, my lord Upton?”

     Upton looked both bemused and offended. He said, “The day I can’t get a girl on my own is the day I get buried. No.”

     “If either of you gentlemen change your mind? Let me know at once as I don’t want to disappoint our staff young ladies. Here at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel, your happiness is our happiness.” The concierge smiled and smiled at this wonderful opportunity to provide happiness all around.

     Airik said, very coldly, “Upton, why are we here? Who chose this place?”

     Upton grimaced. “I did. It came highly recommended sir, and they had the space for us and rest of the Shelleen personnel.”

     “Find some other hotel. Now.”

     The concierge radiated even more joy than the driver had back at the train station when Airik asked about the lack of discreet transportation. “That won’t be possible, my lord Shelleen! The mining conference has filled every hotel in Panschin. It’s us or sleeping in the tunnels.”

     “Every hotel?” Airik demanded.

     “Yes sir, my lord Shelleen! The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel was booked weeks ago along with every other hotel, all fourth-rate compared to us by the way, for the conference. There is no room at the inn anywhere in Panschin, not anymore. If you try to sleep in the tunnels or the park, you’ll be arrested if you aren’t mugged and murdered first! The jails of Panschin are renowned for their squalor and horribleness so I’m sure you would prefer to stay with us, here at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel.”

     “Sir? Airik? Let’s get up to our suite?” Upton said. “I’m sure things will improve.”

     “They had better,” Airik replied. But observing the glinting sharp teeth and gleaming, avaricious eyes of the concierge, he doubted it.

 

     Another army of bellmen appeared to carry the luggage up the four flights of stairs to the Shelleen suite, one bellman for each suitcase and each openly expecting to be tipped for doing his job. Airik was given the choice of walking up four flights of stairs, with eager Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel employees surrounding him or being trapped in the gilded metal lace elevator – the only passenger elevator in Panschin the concierge breathlessly revealed – with the concierge and four of the willing young ladies on staff in case he changed his mind about their services. Their hotel uniforms matched in color scheme, but unlike those of the male staff, their uniforms were missing sleeves, pantlegs and had no working buttons available above the waist. Their smiles were as eager and their eyes as predatory as any Airik had ever seen so he insisted on the stairs. To his surprise, Upton chose the stairs as well.

     “If you insist,” the concierge replied, looking deeply disappointed as they stood in front of the spurned elevator. “Should you change your mind about any of our willing young ladies, we do have a second grass lawn on the rooftop terrace. Very private, very exclusive for only the most special guests, and they say you can feel every blade of grass tickle you.” He waggled his eyebrows at Airik, grinning more lasciviously than ever. The four young ladies, all breathing deeply, fluttered their eyelashes at Airik and licked their lips.

     Airik looked them all over coldly, channeling the hard, icy contempt of the born and bred aristocrat, until, one by one, the willing young ladies turned off their smiles and looked away, abashed. The concierge alone did not wilt, although his maniacal smile dimmed. Airik then turned to Upton. “As soon as we are upstairs, start checking other hotels for cancellations.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     Upton had never seen Airik behave this way before; he was civil even to the rudest fortune-hunter on the train. Then Upton flinched as he remembered how Airik had dealt with Howard Shelleen when he had discovered that Howard’s theft had put the demesne in jeopardy. Airik Shelleen was not just a socially awkward, mild-mannered member of the family whose hobby was collecting rocks. He was chosen as the daimyo for reasons beyond coming up with the plan to manage the Red Mercury lode.

     “You’ll be disappointed!” the concierge recovered himself somewhat and sang out gleefully as Airik strode across the lobby towards the gleaming marble staircase. “Every room in Panschin was sold out weeks ago. You’re part of our happy family here at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel whether you like it or not. We’ll _make_ you happy!”

     Airik did not deign to answer. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he thought as he strode past the bellmen, ignoring them as though they didn’t exist.

     The four flights of marble stairs had been carefully designed so the risers and treads were ever so slightly out of sync, forcing a slow and stately pace upon the user. They were no challenge for Airik, fueled as he was by irritation and a deep desire to escape the hovering, huffing and puffing concierge behind a locked door. By the time they reached the huge, top-floor suite housing the Shelleen contingent, Upton was puffing too, as was Elliot. Nunzio was as unfazed as Airik. It was embarrassing when the bodyguard took a moment to whisper to Upton, “you need to exercise more, sir. How will you keep up with my lord Airik out in the field? Got a lot of tours of mining operations ahead of us.”

     It was with deep relief that Airik stepped into the top floor suite of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. The Shelleen staff, sent ahead a few weeks before had tables spread out with briefing papers, plans, programs, and extensive material on safety procedures for handling toxic ores. They had spent their time productively interviewing leading figures in the Panschin mining industry, setting up meetings, connecting with the Four Hundred families that ran the demesnes in the Northern Mining Tier, and in general, making sure that Airik could get to work right away.

     He had been thinking on the way up the stairs about the Twelve Happiness staff and their overwhelming desire to accommodate every possible guest need and charging for the privilege.

     By the time he strode through the double doors, Airik knew what he wanted to say.

     “I expect to get right to work. However, let me say first,” Airik coolly studied the waiting team. He met each person’s eyes in turn. Some of them were family members or highly placed demesne citizens, while some were outside consultants, hired to augment Shelleen’s tiny mining and geology department. He could fire those people if they did not meet his standards but he was stuck with his relatives.

     “I will be auditing the bills very carefully from the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel.” He winced inwardly. Now he was saying that damned name. “Shelleen does not have unlimited funds. If any of you have accrued expenses you do not wish to discuss publicly with me, our financial officers and the senior family, pay them in person _before_ I get the bill. Get receipts to prove your case if questions arise.”

     Airik was disappointed, but not surprised, to see several staff members blanch. All of them, sadly, were family members too. Did none of his family understand their dire situation? Fortunately, the consultants didn’t look concerned, nor did the few, high-caste Shelleen subjects. They may have actually been working rather than frittering away Shelleen’s coin.

 

 


	6. An Unwanted Stranger

     “We have the gallery showing next week,” Shelby said, over a dinner of yeast blocks highlighted by generous servings of fresh radishes and salt to dip them in. “I want this one to be the best one _ever_.”

     “It will be, dearest,” Auntie Neza replied and took a bite of her own radish. She crunched through it with open enjoyment. “How did you get to keep these radishes, Veronica? I thought you were selling everything you grew to the Dappled Yak. Not that I’m complaining.”

     Veronica smiled and bit into her own sharp, peppery radish. “These were meant for raw eating and the owner’s mother was there when I stopped in. She was horrified they didn’t look like magazine pictures. Too lumpy and they had spots.”

     “Oh, good heavens,” Neza said. Florence and Lulu nodded. Turning up your nose at fresh radishes because they were misshapen? The silliness of some people.

     “Gallery showing! Hello? That’s what’s coming up,” Shelby said, looking annoyed. “We need to be ready.”

     Veronica smiled winningly at her little sister, annoying Shelby still further. “We will be.”

     “It’s a special show. The biggest one of the year. Everyone will be there.”

     “They’re all special shows,” Lulu said. “You say this every time.”

     “Yep, sure do,” Florence added. “Lulu and me have to study. Big test tomorrow. Thanks for the radishes, Veronica. They are a treat. The soup you made from the leaves was good too.”

     Florence snagged the last radish, rolled it in salt, and crunched it slowly, savoring every bite of fresh vegetable. She and Lulu got up from the table and headed upstairs to the room they shared.

     “I’ll get the washing up done later,” Lulu called out as the two girls left the kitchen table and headed into the hallway. “I’ll need a break from anatomy in a few hours.”

     “Thank you,” Veronica said.

     Neza added “I’ll be done darning your socks soon.”

     Florence and Lulu had been terrific additions to the White Elephant household. Veronica always felt so lucky to meet them at the local metro stop in the transtube. They were both nursing students at Panschin Community College and they wanted to live close to school in Dome Two, but in something they could afford.

     Veronica couldn’t, by the terms of the lease, have boarders but she was allowed, by that same lease, to have live-in household help. It was weird and snobbish, but an exploitable loophole. She couldn’t afford to pay Florence and Lulu like she would have to pay real maids, but they couldn’t afford to pay a boarding house for meals and lodgings and get some of the independence they longed for.

     They worked out a deal. Florence and Lulu paid with housework – always desperately needed in a pile the size of the White Elephant, particularly since it was located in Dome Two -- and threw a few coins to Veronica when they could. In exchange, Veronica provided a nice, furnished room for the girls to share, meals, any other assistance she could including dealing with the college’s bureaucracy and editing research papers, and fresh produce from the garden. It had been eating a fresh tomato that had sealed the deal. Neither Florence nor Lulu had ever eaten one before and the taste had been a revelation.

     Since that meeting over a year ago, Florence and Lulu had become part of the family, a family formed by need as opposed to blood. In Veronica’s experience, water was often thicker than blood despite what people claimed. Her own relatives had provided ample proof when they turned their back on her and her sister, despite all previous protests of how close the family was and how the Bradwells stuck together through thick and thin.

     With Florence and Lulu gone, Veronica turned back to Shelby who was scribbling an angry doodle into her ever-present sketchbook, one that strongly resembled an evil, sneering Veronica with added devil horns and twirling a whip-like tail.

     “Shelby,” Veronica said while suppressing a sigh, “the show will be fine. We’ll get the house swept down, the ballroom scrubbed down, the windows wiped down, I’ll rake all the paths again, I’ve got fresh veg coming along nicely that will be ready for nibble trays, and I’ve made arrangements for eggs.”

     Auntie Neza and Shelby both gasped. Shelby set her pencil down and left the sketched Veronica’s feet unfinished. She had been on the verge of cloven hoofs.

     “Eggs? Really?” Neza said. “We haven’t had eggs in over a year.”

     “Oh Veronica,” Shelby said. “That’s wonderful. Did you get very many?”

     Veronica looked smug. “Two dozen. I’ll devil them and cut them into quarters to make them go further. Mrs. Grisson couldn’t promise any more than that. She’s got other clients and they pay cash.”

     “What did you have to trade to get them?” Neza asked suspiciously. “You already compost everything her chickens would eat.”

     “Shelby’s going to draw portraits of all her grandchildren.”

     “You promised my work without asking me?” Shelby asked. “How could you?”

     “You want a successful show or not?” Veronica asked, her eyes narrowed. She glared at her sister. “A treat like deviled eggs might encourage people to buy those ugly paintings.”

     “They’re not ugly. They are avant-garde.”

     “Okay, they’re not ugly. They’re hideous and no sane person will buy them, even with eggs as a bribe,” Veronica retorted.

     “These paintings will sell! I think we finally found our audience. Professor Vitebskin says all the right people will be here,” Shelby snapped back. “That’s why this show is so important.”

     “You think? He found an audience for paintings of mud? This is Panschin! People see nothing but dirt and terraformers every damn day! Paint landscapes and flowers and portraits of people’s kids. Why don’t any of you paint those things? Those paintings would sell.”

     “Veronica, you just don’t understand. You are so bourgeois.”

     “Bourgeois people can pay their debts. They don’t have bill collectors stopping by their house on a regular basis,” Veronica snarled back.

     Auntie Neza rapped her cane on the floor, in a bid for attention.

     “Now, now girls,” she said soothingly. “Let’s not fight.”

     She smiled and winked at Veronica, then turned her attention back to Shelby. “Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, dear girl. But I don’t think you’re worried about the cause of avant-garde art or Veronica volunteering you when it’s for such a good reason. What is it really?”

     Shelby looked away and began pleating her napkin, worn thin from decades of use, into folds, then spread the napkin flat again, and began pleating it in the opposite direction. Veronica and Neza, recognizing this familiar nervous habit, waited for her to speak. They both knew from long experience that Shelby wouldn’t talk until she felt able.

     She didn’t look up again until she had the napkin twisted into a spiral. “What if,” Shelby began and stopped. “What if Mrs. Grisson doesn’t like my drawings? I may not be able to draw good, accurate portraits of her grandchildren.”

     “Yes, you can,” Veronica said, mentally condemning Professor Vitebskin to the bottom of the nearest mineshaft where he could die of thirst in the dark if broken bones from the fall didn’t get him first. That self-righteous idiot had made Shelby doubt every bit of her artistic abilities. “You have real talent.”

     “You do lovely work, dear girl,” Neza added. “Besides, Mrs. Grisson has seen your drawings of us. She knows you can do it.”

     “You showed her?” Shelby gasped, paled and started twisting the napkin again. Neza put her arthritis-stiffened hand over Shelby’s own, both to reassure her and to keep her from damaging the napkin still further.

     “Yes, I did,” Veronica answered patiently. “She loved them. Do you want eggs or not?”

     Shelby fiddled with the napkin as she thought of how a good show for the PanU Artists’ Collective -- especially if actual sales for real money were involved -- might help her win more acceptance with the other students. Mrs. Grisson wouldn’t judge her the way they did, the way Professor Vitebskin did. _She_ didn’t know anything about fine art. _She_ dropped her ‘h’s and lived by her wits. _She_ raised chickens and guinea pigs on her rooftop terrace and slaughtered them herself. _She_ rented out rooms to boarders, cooked for them and washed their laundry. What did _her_ opinion matter? Her hands went still and she looked up at her sister.

     “All right then.” She set her jaw. “I’ll do it. How many grandchildren does Mrs. Grisson have anyway?”

     “Five or six,” Veronica said. “She wasn’t real clear. I think her younger daughter’s got a new boyfriend with a kid of his own and this one might be a keeper.”

     “A blessing to be sure,” Neza said. She smiled fondly at both of her grandnieces. Her life had improved immeasurably when they had sought refuge in her home. They had given her warmth, love, companionship, and filled up an echoing, empty house.

     Shelby’s eyes lit up. “Does this mean I can buy another sketchpad?” she asked hopefully. “I’d like to do bigger sketches and some studies, you know, have room to catch their character better.”

     Veronica smiled with relief and glanced over at the cracked, bright yellow cookie jar. “We might be able to manage that.” She eyed her sister and decided to throw her a bone. “Maybe even some pencils.”

     “Ooh, that would be nice,” Shelby said, her eyes going very wide. As Veronica hoped, her sister was distracted by the now all-important decision of which shade and hardness of charcoal pencil she needed the most.

     The three women sat quietly in the early evening light, no one especially eager to leap up, despite all the tasks waiting for them before the light failed. They were all occupied by their own thoughts. The quiet was broken suddenly, when the rusty gate in the low stone wall surrounding the White Elephant creaked its warning. The sound easily carried through the open windows.

     “That’s strange,” Veronica said, suddenly alert.

     She glanced over at the calendar on the wall, one Shelby had salvaged from the recycling bin in the art department at PanU when no one was looking. This month’s picture was of a fluffy black and white kitten wearing a vivid red bow around its neck to contrast with its bright green eyes. The unacceptable illustrations of adorable kittens were the reason a current calendar had been discarded long before its time. Someone, no one knew who, had smuggled it into the studio and pinned it to the wall. According to Shelby, it hadn’t taken long for Professor Vitebskin to spot the calendar, stomp around the studio roaring in outrage, and toss it into the bin for an eventual and much deserved pulping.

     “There’s no one who’s made an appointment for mending or produce. Florence or Lulu would have said something if their boyfriends were coming for a visit.”

     “Best to see who it is, Veronica,” Neza said. A worried look crossed her face. “It might be important.”

     Veronica, followed by Shelby and much more slowly, Neza, rose and headed for the doorway leading to the hallway and the grand central atrium after that. It was possible, she thought, that someone had answered her ad and was looking for a room for the night. She thought of money for the lease and smiled in anticipation. The guest book lay open and waiting on the polished table in the atrium before the large front door. The grand front door didn’t have a knocker anymore, so the creaky gate acted as an early warning.

     She opened the door just as someone knocked sharply on the other side.

     “Hello,” Veronica said, smiling brightly at the stranger looming in the doorway. It was a large doorway and he was a large man, filling it up. He stayed on the doorstep and didn’t try to come in.

     “You the lease holder of this fine establishment?” the stranger asked. His accent held a slight hiss, not from anywhere in Panschin that Veronica was familiar with. He was neatly dressed in a basic business suit, rather than the ubiquitous coverall, but it, like his accent, was subtly wrong compared to what she was used to hearing and seeing on the streets of Panschin. He had shaved his head, another oddity in the streets of Panschin.

     Her heart sank.

     “Uh, yes, I am,” she replied.

     Truthfully, Neza held the lease but Veronica wasn’t about to let her elderly great-aunt, the woman who had given her and her sister a home, be bullied by some officious stranger from the bank.

     “You interested in subletting? Moving to a nicer part of town? My boss is very interested in this house.”

     “Excuse me?”

     ‘ _Who was this man_ ,’ Veronica thought. At least he wasn’t from the bank. The Second National Bank of Panschin strenuously disapproved of subletting and was likely to throw everyone out if they caught wind of such illegalities, along with bringing suit against the original leaseholder. Veronica often wondered how Mrs. Grisson got away with her own very loose interpretation of the rules. Nerves of steel, she supposed. There was also the fact that Mrs. Grisson didn’t labor under the multiple handicaps that the Bradwell family did.

     “Are you deaf? My boss wants your house.”

     Veronica stared up at his hard, unfriendly face and found her voice.

     “I am not deaf. I heard you fine. You just surprised me, that’s all. And the answer is no. This is our home and we’re not moving. Good day.”

     She started to slam the door in his face and the stranger shoved his large foot in the way, forcing it to stay open. He pushed his head over the threshold. He took a quick look around, taking in the wide, carved double staircase leading to the upper floor, the gracious atrium walls adorned with elaborate molding designed to impress visitors, and the views into spacious rooms that opened off the hallway on both sides. Then he leered openly at her, raking his eyes across her body.

     “This is a good house and my boss wants it. I want you to think about where you gonna move to. You can have some time, but not much.”

     Veronica meet his cold, ice blue eyes and said firmly, “No. Leave right now or I am calling the police.”

     The stranger stared down at her for a long, long moment as Veronica’s mouth went dry and then dryer but she glared back up at him, willing him to say something and refusing to step back a single centimeter.

     “I’m going. Start looking for another place to live.”

     He stepped back and Veronica slammed the door closed, grateful for its heavy weight for the first time. She locked it at once, turned and sagged against the door in relief. She saw her sister and aunt staring at her from the hallway door, their eyes wide. Neza was leaning on her cane, a sure sign her joints were hurting more than usual.

     “What was that about?” Shelby asked. “He’s not from the bank.”

     “I don’t know,” Veronica said, her voice raspy. She coughed, trying to clear her throat. “Whoever that was, he must have made a mistake. Got the wrong house, I suppose.”

     “Do you really think so?” Shelby said.

     Veronica eyed her sister and her aunt for a moment and thought about what to say to reassure them. Lulu and Florence came racing down the stairs. They must have heard the gate too, followed by the sound of the door opening, but then being slammed shut, something that never happened. They all had enough troubles without adding unfounded fears to the mix. Shelby in particular was liable to let her imagination run away with her. That was the problem with being artistic; it led to a taste for unwarranted drama.

     “Yes, I’m positive,” Veronica said, forcing herself to sound calm. She was relieved her nerves didn’t show. “Why would anyone want this house? It’s not that special. There are plenty more going begging in Dome Two. They’re all white elephants, just like this one.”

     “Not like this one,” Neza said dryly. “Our White Elephant is white. Those white elephants are all covered with terraformers from top to bottom.”

     Shelby giggled suddenly. “They’re blotchy elephants, every shade of gray and green and brown.”

     Veronica chuckled weakly. “Yes, they are. Shelby, why don’t you help Neza back to the kitchen. Florence? Do you have any more of your joint medicine? Lulu, got a minute?”

     Veronica waited quietly with Lulu in the atrium as the last of the sunlight poured down the stairwell from the larger roof opening two floors above. It would soon be replaced by the dimmer, cooler, reflected light bouncing from the underside of the dome. It never got completely dark inside Dome Two the way it did outside on the steppes. With the dome blocking the way, there were never any stars to marvel at.

     Lulu had a thoughtful expression on her face.

     When she was sure Shelby, Neza, and Florence were all safely down the hall and in the kitchen, Lulu said, “you’re worried, aren’t you?”

     “Yep,” Veronica said. “I do think it was a mistake and that, that, _oaf_ had the wrong house. But even so, somebody somewhere wants something and we don’t want to be in the way.” She shuddered, thinking of his lustful eyes as he ogled her figure.

     “I’ll ask Trevor to walk by the White Elephant whenever he can,” Lulu said. “I know Florence’s boyfriend will keep an eye out when he’s off work too.”

     “You’ll talk to Florence then?” Veronica asked. “I don’t want Shelby to get upset, especially if this is all nothing like I think it is.”

     Lulu rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah. You know? We’re the same age, me and her and Florence, but sometimes she just seems so much like a little girl.”

     “Well, it’s been really hard for her, since the scandal and our dad’s suicide, and then mom dying,” Veronica stopped explaining when she saw Lulu’s disdainful expression.

     “Life is hard for most of us, Veronica,” the other girl said coolly. “We just have to get on with it. Like _you_ do. Like Shelby should. I’ll talk to Trevor as soon as I can.”

     “Thank you.” It was easy to forget, Veronica realized again, how little Lulu talked about her childhood. She had reasons she didn’t like sharing; reasons that didn’t encourage sympathy for unfounded complaints or whining.

     Veronica sighed. Lulu was right though. It was time to get on with it so she headed back into the kitchen to talk to Shelby and Neza.

     Neza was sitting down with a cup of steaming mint tea in front of her, while Shelby massaged her aching hands until she could comfortably lift it. Florence was putting the lid back onto her little jar of salve, the one she had learned to make at nursing school using herbs from the PCC nursing department’s extensive medicinal herb beds. It was one of the few parts of PCC that was above ground, sharing precious surface space on the PanU campus.

     “Neza will be okay,” Florence said.

     “As okay as I’ll ever be at this age,” Neza added. Her eyes flicked over to Shelby and then back to Veronica. “You know, it feels a bit chilly. I think you should close and lock all the downstairs windows tonight.”

     Shelby smiled brightly. “What a good idea. I’ll help you upstairs, auntie Neza. While you darn, I’ve got studying to do.”

     Florence lingered, while Shelby helped Neza back to her feet, fetched her cane, and helped her limp to the stairs. The run to the front door had taken its toll.

     As soon as she heard their footsteps on the stairs, Florence said, “you never saw this guy before?”

     “Never. Did you or Lulu get a good look at him?”

     “No, I think only you did. We weren’t fast enough down the stairs. Did Neza or Shelby see his face?” Florence asked.

     “I don’t think so.”

     “Weird.” Florence’s face lit up. “Ooh. I’ll ask Evan to come around more, walk around the house and the neighborhood.”

     “Good idea,” Veronica replied. “I already talked to Lulu about Trevor walking around. That guy will figure out he got the wrong address.”

***********

     Late that evening, after she checked all the locks on the doors and windows on the ground floor for the third time, Veronica stopped in to see auntie Neza. She found her aunt sitting up in bed, reading by the light of a taper. It was clear she had been waiting for Veronica. The unfinished darning lay next to Neza on the dresser, waiting for the brighter morning light.

     “Shelby’s fine, already asleep,” Veronica said, answering an anticipated question.

     “Good. I’ve been thinking it over and I’ve decided to go to the police station in the morning,” Neza said.

     Veronica stiffened and said, “do you really think there might be danger?”

     “Probably not,” Neza replied. “But I like being careful. I’ll tell them I saw prowlers. The desk sergeant will listen to me since I’m a long-time resident of Dome Two. They know me and they know I don’t make up things so they won’t dismiss me out of hand, unlike some of the neighbors.”

     She sniffed disparagingly and Veronica knew she referred to the household two blocks over. That family had moved in recently from Dome Five and expected twice daily walk-by’s from the local beat police.

     Veronica considered this. “Do you think I should go as well?”

     “Hmm. No, probably not. My complaint should do.”

     “I’ll tell the neighbors,” Veronica decided. “Starting with Mrs. Grisson. She knows everything that’s going on and she might have heard something.”

     Neza settled back into her pillow with a contented sigh. “You take good care of us, Veronica.”

******

     In the morning, Veronica walked all around her tiny domain and inspected every window, every door, every path, along with the squeaky gate in the low stone wall. She discovered nothing out of the ordinary. It was reassuring and proof she was right. That man wasn’t planning on robbing them or assaulting them; he had the wrong address. Nonetheless, she kept all the windows on the ground floor locked despite the slowly growing heat of spring in Dome Two. Mrs. Grisson and the other neighbors knew nothing about the situation, but they all promised to keep a lookout and, thanks to Neza’s complaint, the local police walked by the White Elephant more regularly as part of their routine beat.

     Mrs. Grisson did, however, have other disquieting news.

     The local branch of the Second National Bank of Panschin, the leaseholder for everyone on their block, had taken on a new assistant manager. This man was reported to be a go-getter who wanted to ‘get things done’ and ‘make improvements to the way we do business’. Her informant (Doris, one of the junior tellers who boarded with her) said he was reviewing all the leases the bank held, an action that hadn’t taken place in decades, since the exodus to Dome Six began. Fortunately, according to Mrs. Grisson’s informant, it would take years for him to work his way through all the filing cabinets and more years to read and digest all that fine print.

     Days passed without incident, either from suspicious thugs or assistant bank managers, and Veronica began to relax again. The Panschin Biennial Mining Conference had begun with its possibility of guests for the White Elephant Bed and Breakfast, and the art show was fast approaching.

 


	7. The Hotel Run By Insane People (and those unlucky enough to stay there)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Airik’s stay at the Twelve Happiness Hotel gets worse. A lot worse.

     It was a relief to bury himself in briefing papers. This was work that Airik could understand: analyzing columns of numbers, charts, graphs, reports and figuring out where the lies were. Numbers could and did lie but not the way people did. Any wishful thinking present in a report on safety measures was due to the writer, not the numbers themselves. They didn’t claim to be other than what they were. Once you figured out how the numbers were slanted, you could correctly interpret them or discard them all together.

     Airik called a halt only when more than one person’s stomach rumbled loudly enough to get his attention.

     “Upton?”

     Upton sprang to attention, relieved that it might be time to quit for a while. His typewriter, a valuable heirloom shipped from Olde Earthe, was state of the art but his fingers still got tired. Transcribing everything Airik said got boring fast but the job demanded careful attention to detail, no matter how mind-numbing it all was.

     “We’ll break for lunch. Gaston?”

     Gaston Shelleen looked up warily. He was the lead member of Shelleen’s tiny mining department, decades older than Airik, three degrees of consanguinity away so he didn’t know Airik that well other than from work, he resented what he did know, and he’d never been to Panschin before. He’d taken full advantage of the hotel’s varied and delightfully stimulating amenities (many more than twelve kinds were available) and had spent the entire morning sweating over how he was going to discreetly pay for them.

     Gaston did know Airik well enough to know the daimyo meant what he said. He vividly remembered what happened to Howard Shelleen and had no desire to reenact a similar scene in the stone courtyard in front of the manor house while watched by a mob of contemptuous peasants. There was also the question of his wife back home in Shelleen. He cringed inwardly. She would have plenty to say when she discovered their only daughter’s dowry had vanished into the maw of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel along with a list of the services he had indulged in.

     “Yes sir?” Gods but it galled to have to call this callow poindexter ‘sir’.

     “Can the hotel’s restaurant seat all of us for lunch on short notice? The break will be good for all of us. We’ll return to work afterwards.”

     “Yes sir, I believe so.”

     “Good. Let them know we’ll be downstairs in half an hour.”

     Airik eyed Gaston coolly. He had been the leader of the Shelleen contingent until his own arrival and had shown the most distress at his announcement that the hotel bills would be audited. Airik suppressed a sigh. Of everyone in the suite, Gaston should have known how important it was to mine the Red Mercury correctly. It poisoned everything it touched and safe handling was going to be stunningly expensive, using up every bit of Shelleen’s spare treasury. Gaston had decades of experience in Shelleen’s other mining operations but tin ore and copper were a far sight easier to manage than the Red Mercury would be. Gaston probably would sacrifice peasants to do the dirty work and never once understand that the peasants of Shelleen were its working backbone. They were a resource to be husbanded like any other and couldn’t be wasted just because he couldn’t control his own appetites.

     “Airik? As a reminder, I’ve scheduled an afternoon meeting with Atto, Davis, Maerski, and Fuziwara. Their daimyos are eager to meet with you.”

     “Ah.” Airik relaxed slightly. Gaston had done something useful. These gentlemen were sure to share some of his own interests in geology. They were, after all, the daimyos of the leading mining demesnes in this quadrant of the Northern Mining Tier. Maerski in particular was a powerhouse in extraction, refining, processing, sales, and shipping of ores. Those were all subjects he needed to learn in a hurry.

     “I look forward to it.”

*****

     The hotel’s restaurant staff were extremely attentive; attentive to the point that Airik believed they would have not just cut his own steak up into bits for him so he didn’t have to struggle with a knife, but the hovering team of waitresses would have fed the tidbits to him, bite by bite. He also would not have believed that any female member of the Twelve Happiness staff would wear a skimpier uniform than those of the willing young ladies he had met upon his arrival, but yes, the waitresses wore even less. It was distracting. Upton was not alone in not knowing where to look first. Even the Shelleen early arrivals were not immune, despite the time they had to get acclimated.

     The food was odd. Strangely spiced, heavily sauced, distractingly textured, largely unfamiliar, and not the plain, identifiable things he preferred. Airik had learned during his travels that he liked knowing what he was eating and here, it was hard to tell. He ate it anyway.

     That was the only good part of the meal.

     The cheery waitresses bustled around him continuously: refilling glasses of water (triple-filtered for your happiness!) after a single sip, fresh napkins as soon as he touched one, warm wet towels to continuously clean his hands, the replacement of silverware whether it needed it or not, refilling muffin baskets as soon as one was taken, and at every opportunity, bending over the table to display their own tip-generating assets. It was distracting and irritating especially as Airik noticed he was the only person at the table who seemed to want to eat and get back to work.

     The waitresses, despite their continual presence and the reinforcement of the maître-de who also couldn’t manage to find something else to do, did little to keep away eager supplicants. As on the train, glad-handing entrepreneurs kept coming up to bother Airik with guaranteed plans for success. It was hard to tell how many more pests would have interrupted lunch. Nunzio’s hulking presence deterred only the weaker specimens. No one else in the Shelleen contingent was bothered at their meal; just Airik. He was the only one who counted. At least the concierge didn’t come out of his lair to pester him further about other ‘special services’.

     It was a relief to flee up the four flights of marble stairs back to the suite and prepare for the arrival of the daimyos from Atto, Davis, Maerski, and Fuziwara.

*****

     Those gentlemen filed in right on time, each accompanied by a number of staffers. Family most likely, Airik surmised since why would you hire outsiders when you had otherwise unemployed relatives to do the work? Atto, Davis, Maerski and Fuziwara were all older men, on par with Gaston Shelleen. Their staffs were younger, and interestingly, more than one staffer in each group was young and pretty and female. The four daimyos, despite not resembling each other, were wearing identical expressions (when they weren’t scowling at each other). Apparently, none of the daimyos had anticipated that their peers would have similar goals for the meeting.

     Their shared expression was one Airik had come to recognize. It was an expression that said ‘I want you to meet your future wife, the next daimyah of Shelleen’. At least this expression was a change from the one he’d seen repeatedly during lunch: ‘I’ve got a sure-fire plan to make us both rich.’ These men were already wealthy but they did have the daughters of their families to marry off and marrying up was always better than marrying down. There was no prize like an unmarried daimyo: significant family connections, wealth-generating business deals, and highly placed grandchildren were all inspiring spurs to action.

     The four daimyos circled the room, eyeing each other and jostling for position. Each was vying to be the first to present their own candidates to be the new daimyah of Shelleen. Airik didn’t bother trying to catch their names as the young women were all the same: talented, well-educated, intelligent, attractive, presumably fertile, young, and supremely well connected. The perfect candidates for his wife in fact, as Auntie Zilpah would tell him. Every one of them, he saw with dismay, viewed him from behind a screen of family obligations and had credit signs dancing in her eyes.

     Airik was unable to keep the conversation focused where he wanted it: learning more from these daimyos how they managed extracting resources from their lands without destroying them for all time along with plans for the future when the ores were gone. Eventually, after an agony of trying to make small talk with people who had no genuine interest in what _he_ needed to know, Upton rescued him by pointing out that this hole in his schedule had closed up and it was time for the next appointment.

     That meeting was with the owner of Steelio, one of the smaller mining concerns in Panschin. Steelio specialized in copper, something that Shelleen had an abundance of. He, as it turned out, not only had ideas about cooperative ventures that would enrich both himself and Shelleen. He also had an attractive, unmarried niece whom he brought along to meet Airik.

     The rest of the day continued in the same vein, culminating in a gala dinner and dancing hosted by the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel for all the attendees at the biennial Panschin Mining Conference. All the attendees were eager to meet Airik, promote their own get-rich-quick schemes, and introduce him to suitable young ladies from their own households. These meetings were not enhanced by having to shout over the atonal music provided by the orchestra nor the heat produced by cramming too many overdressed people into a gaudy, mirrored ballroom. The other guests had even less interest in rock collecting than they did in safety procedures.

     It was a relief to escape back to the suite. At that point, Airik discovered that opening the windows of the suite did not let in fresh, quiet night air. Instead, opening the windows got all the noise and bright lights of Dome Six as the nightclub scene took off just below on the hotel grounds and all around the building everywhere there was a storefront or sidewalk bar. As the crowd’s merriment increased, it turned out that party horns in a variety of inharmonious pitches were the preferred accessory. The cacophony echoed and reverberated between the buildings and off of the dome overhead, gaining in intensity with each bounce. Closing the windows made the room as stuffy as being in a tunnel.

     In the morning, after a repeatedly interrupted breakfast, Airik spoke to the concierge about the lack of ventilation.

     “My lord Shelleen, the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel has a state-of-the-art ventilation system, even finer than that of Dome Six,” the concierge said, clutching his gleaming shirt over his lungs for emphasis. “We here at the Twelve Happiness want you to be _happy_. I can assure you that the air you breathe is as fresh as all outdoors, filtered three times for your benefit. Why, you couldn’t get fresher air out on the steppes!”

     This was patently untrue but there was no arguing with the concierge of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel.

     The day continued in the same manner, broken by a lunch that Airik insisted upon being served in the suite rather than deal with the restaurant. That led to a parade of underdressed staff cooing over him and filling the suite with the odors of strange, off-putting spices, an odor that did not dissipate even when every window in the suite was opened to the noisy dome surrounding them.

     Two more days passed, each more irritating than the last. Airik couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat in peace, couldn’t eat in the suite without making it smell even worse, couldn’t focus on work, and every meeting wherever it was held devolved quickly into a plea to meet my daughter, niece, younger sister, granddaughter, or cousin. It was maddening. To add to his consternation, it turned out that the winking and smirking concierge -- who did not miss any opportunity to ask Airik about his intimate preferences -- had been right all along. There were no cancellations anywhere within Panschin that Upton could find. There was no place Airik could escape to, where he could think and work and figure out how to dig out the Red Mercury without poisoning his workers along with the land.

*****

     Airik sat at a corner table in the hotel’s restaurant hidden behind The Panschin Gazette. It was a poor screen but the best he had been able to come up with, along with keeping his back to the wall. The newspaper was crammed with stories about the Biennial Mining Conference, along with lurid stories about violent crime in the tunnels, lubricious scandals among local celebrities, and corruption running rampant within the government offices. The front-page story managed, via impressive feats of speculation, to involve all four subjects at once. He took his time reading the news as it distracted from the questionable breakfast he was eating and the grumbling from the Shelleen staff over his lack of focus. After finishing every article including skimming those in the baffling sports section (lizard racing was popular as was something called footie), he began leafing through the pages of classified ads to postpone having to face the day.

     As Airik turned the pages, he caught sight of a tiny drawing of an elephant at the very bottom of the newspaper, tucked in with a number of other tiny rectangles crammed with too much type and not enough white space. The elephant, quite well drawn too, adorned a small, mostly empty ad space:

The White Elephant Bed and Breakfast

Close to main transtube lines

Hidden Hideaway

Clean, Quiet, Private, Secluded

646 Oleander Lane, Dome Two

Reasonable rates; inquire within for vacancies

 

     He stared at the ad. The words reverberated in his head like the nightly serenade of party horns: clean, quiet, private, secluded. Dome Two, the second oldest dome in Panschin and by far the largest. Upton had checked repeatedly and every hotel in Dome Two was filled, along with Domes Six, Five, Three, and One, but he had not mentioned this place. This was a chance for escape. But the work; how would he manage that? He couldn’t move the entire Shelleen party. This bed and breakfast didn’t sound that large.

     Then it struck him. It was a bed and breakfast, not a hotel. He could sleep there and eat breakfast and then return to the Twelve Happiness for meetings or, really, go anywhere in Panschin for meetings and tours. The city was compact for its population and boasted of its transportation system. He would still be available to his own staff on a regular basis while not being available to anyone else.

     The next question was how to do it.

     “Sir? Airik?” Upton said, interrupting his train of thought.

     “Not now,” Airik replied.

     Upton frowned. Airik was becoming increasingly unlike his normal coolly reserved and well-mannered self. He often had trouble understanding other people’s motives so he hid behind a veneer of polite formality. Standard empty pleasantries gave him time to think over what had been said and left unsaid.

     Upton glanced up at the huge twelve-sided restaurant clock and checked the placement of the multiple shiny red hands, working out which set was for Panschin, which was for Barsoom, which was for Easternmost, and which was for Westernmost. As he did, he wondered again why the hotel refused to install separate clocks for important time zones like every other place he had ever been did. It was maddening. He tried again.

     “Sir, we’ve got to get to our next meeting with Jandinaire. We’ll be touring their lead and radium refining facility in Dome Four. They have the latest safety equipment installed and agreed to let you see it.”

     Airik put the newspaper down and gave Upton a long, cool look.

     “They can wait a few minutes. I need to go back to the suite and speak with Elliot.”

     “Uh, we’ll be late.”

     Airik, Upton knew, hated being late. He didn’t like his own time being wasted by having to wait and so he made a point of not wasting other people’s time by making them wait on him.

     “Upton. It will not kill them to wait.”

     Airik carefully folded the newspaper and laid it on the table besides his twelve-sided plate emblazoned with the hotel’s logo. A waitress swooped in to snatch it for replacement with a fresh one and he put his hand over top of the newspaper to protect it from her taloned hands. Each terrifyingly long, scarlet fingernail was adorned with a glowing decal of the Twelve Happiness logo.

     “Besides,” Airik added, “this will give Jandinaire more time to get their own business requests prepped and ready. You know they’ll ask for a joint deal and insist that I meet every member of the family who is even remotely eligible along with those who are not.”

     “Yes, sir.” ‘Good heavens,’ Upton thought. This place was really getting to Airik.

     Back upstairs in the suite, Airik spoke to Elliot and Nunzio behind closed doors. Gaston, along with the other members of the Shelleen delegation, noticed and commented freely on the fact that Upton was not included, whereas a valet and a bodyguard were. It was embarrassing that he could not answer any of their pointed questions, almost as embarrassing as not being included. Airik had always kept Upton involved in his business dealings in the past.

     After what seemed to Upton like an eternity but was in reality only about half an hour, Airik emerged.

     “Upton,” Airik said. “Cancel all my appearances this afternoon. Gaston?”

     Gaston tried to school the surprise from his face. Airik never deviated from a schedule unless it was an emergency. He couldn’t think what had happened that he didn’t already know about. “Yes sir?”

     “You’ll take those meetings over. I’ll brief you on what I expect from and for Shelleen on our way to the Jandinaire facility.”

     “Cancel everything?” Upton asked. He had managed to stop gawping at Airik. “The main panel discussion that you specifically requested to attend is…” His voice trailed off on seeing Airik’s icy expression.

     “Yes. Cancel everything. You’ll be accompanying me this afternoon along with Elliot and Nunzio. No one else. Why are we standing around? Jandinaire is waiting for us. Gaston, lead the way.”

     Airik strode over to the double doorways, trailed by the other Shelleen delegates. He ignored the whispers and waited impatiently while Gaston remembered what he was supposed to do.

     The trip from the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel in Dome Six to the Jandinaire facility in Dome Four, at Airik’s insistence, took place on the Panschin metro. He flatly refused to use any of the Twelve Happiness vehicles, preferring, as he told the concierge in the middle of the lobby in a clear carrying voice to be better heard by the other guests, to mingle with the commoners of Panschin rather than be harassed continually by overeager, grasping toadies. The concierge, desperate to regain control of a valued and very lucrative guest, begged, pleaded, and wept on his knees, but Airik remained firm. He unbent only enough to get directions to the nearest transtube station as Gaston, along with the rest of the Shelleen delegation, did not know how to get there despite the time they had spent in Panschin. That lapse earned them a long, icy glare of disapproval.

     The metro station was, like the train station at the entrance to Panschin, caked with terraformers wherever indifferent housekeeping and foot traffic permitted them to grow. It was also, other than the noise and odors of the mob of people present, anonymous. No one paid any attention to Airik or the Shelleen delegation, other than grumbling about how many seats they took up on the metro car. The journey to Dome Four was far swifter than the original trip from the train station to Dome Six, making Airik wonder again about the route the electric vehicle had taken. It also made him wonder how much the hotel was charging his delegation for transportation which they could have arranged themselves for far less money.

     The group emerged from the transtube station into the thick, dusty air inside Dome Four. A smiling delegation of the Jandinaire family waited for them and led them down the crowded sidewalks that snaked between buildings, warehouses, processing plants, and holding tanks. The sidewalks were regularly interrupted by pipes leading from one tank to another, with more pipes overhead. Terraformers carpeted every surface that received any sunlight at all, other than the walkways where foot traffic wore it away. No effort had been made to remove any of them. The dome overhead was low and mottled with shades of yellow and tan, obscuring the location of the sun. It made sure no one forgot they were under an immense, overturned bowl.

     When Airik asked about the ubiquitous mats of algae and lichens, Nathan Jandinaire said “We need them here in Dome Four. They clean the air, oxygenate it, and make it possible to breathe. Terraformers are a lot cheaper than installing scrubbing equipment. Better at it too.” He happily patted the tank wall they were standing beside. His fingers sank into the thick, spongy layer. When he removed his hand, it came away dripping little chunks while an imprint of his hand remained.

     Airik peered closely at the thick mat of dull green algae, interwoven with fibrous red threads. They were speckled liberally with spores ready to burst open and spread themselves out still further, colonizing every surface they touched. He thought about the air he was breathing. He thought about observing every member of the Shelleen delegation never going anywhere without a stash of handkerchiefs at the ready. As he did, Upton sneezed again, along with Gaston and two other staffers, one of them from Jandinaire.

     “This is healthier for your workers and yourselves?”

     “It works quite well,” the Jandinaire representative answered cheerfully. “No one _lives_ in Dome Four, not above ground anyway. It might be different if there was housing here.”

     “But don’t you lose various chemicals to the terraformers that scrubbers would catch?”

     “We scrape everything down on a regular basis and process the muck to salvage those raw materials,” Nathan answered. “The terraformers grow back fast, which is a good thing. A freshly scraped area in Dome Four forces our crews to wear respirators.”

     “I see.”

     The Jandinaire facility was, for Airik, fascinating. The meeting afterwards in the paneled conference room was much less so. He was introduced to every single unmarried woman in the family over the age of sixteen. The married female family members also attended and they discreetly made their interest clear in affairs to be conducted at his leisure.

     Airik demurred as civilly as he could manage and insisted on returning to the refining facility for further demonstrations until the meeting was over. The Jandinaire family indulged him with only some pouting on the part of some relatives, since doing so paved the way for potentially lucrative business deals. Besides, there would be plenty of time for flirting over the catered lunch that Jandinaire provided at their headquarters.

*****

     Safely back at the hotel, Airik checked with Elliot and everything was ready. He then called together all the Shelleen delegates.

     “Gaston, everyone,” Airik said. “I believe I have found another place to stay. If I am successful, I will be back tomorrow morning for the conference discussion on deep shaft ventilation procedures. I will no longer stay at the hotel, returning only for meetings and discussions. Otherwise, I will return within the hour. Elliot, Nunzio, and Upton will accompany me. Gaston?”

     “Yes, Airik?” Gaston said cautiously. This was not like Airik, normally conscientious to a fault and expecting everyone else to hold to the same lofty standards.

     “You will remain in charge of the Shelleen delegation here at the hotel. Act in my place this afternoon and potentially, this evening. When I return, I expect a full report of each conference and any promises made to us or by you.”

     “Yes, sir,” Gaston said. This had to be a trap to punish him for his extracurricular activities at the hotel. Airik must have already discovered how he had been spending his time and Shelleen’s money. Either that or the ever-present fug of terraformers had eaten into Airik’s brain. They were making him blow his own nose constantly and he wasn’t the only one.

     “But Airik,” Upton protested. “Everyone expects to work with you personally. You are the daimyo.”

     Airik wiped his hand back over his thick, sensibly short hair, an uncharacteristic gesture for him. He snapped, “I cannot function here at the hotel. I need a quiet place to think and to process what I’m learning. Since no one has provided this for me, I am providing it.”

     “Sir,” Gaston, wishing he had never come to Panschin and that Upton had chosen a different, less enticing hotel, said “I have to agree with Upton.”

     Airik gave Gaston, Upton, and the rest of the Shelleen contingent a long, slow, cold stare until they wilted. More than one of them thought of an exiled Howard Shelleen who had, according to family gossip, never fully recovered.

     “Did you listen to what I said? I cannot function here. I have to do what is best for Shelleen, not what is best for others. You may, Gaston, if you like, ask for a vote of no-confidence when we return to Shelleen. It is your right. I am sure the senior family will be happy to know how you and the rest of the department have ensured my ability to keep the demesne safe and prosperous.”

     “Yes sir,” Gaston said, echoed by the rest of the staff. He stared down at the plush carpet, patterned with multiple repetitions of the Twelve Happiness logo in clashing colors. That was a vote he would lose, ensuring his loss of status within the family. Airik was the reason Shelleen had kept control of the Red Mercury lode, Airik had fought the multiple lawsuits against the Martian government and won, Airik had gotten the conclave on his side, Airik was the only member of the Shelleen family that those damned horse lords would work with and the city management of Purnell wasn’t much more cooperative. And underpinning it all was the fact that the peasants of Shelleen were completely loyal to him, personally. If the family replaced Airik as the daimyo without a compelling and acceptable reason, the peasants were likely to revolt. Everyone in Shelleen from highest to lowest knew what had happened in Dairapaska.

     Airik waited to see if anyone had anything to say in response. When he felt he had given the Shelleen delegates enough time, he broke the silence.

     “Good. I, along with Elliot, Upton, and Nunzio will be coming and going as needed. We’ll be dressed like common laborers and use the servants’ staircases and passageways. Nunzio has already found a discreet route for us to use. Elliot has procured coveralls. Upton?”

     “Yes sir?”

     “We will change, get our bags, Elliot has packed what we need, and find the White Elephant. Gaston?”

     “Yes sir?”

     “You are in charge. I expect the very best from you and I will get it or I and the family will know the reason why.”

     “Yes sir.”

**********

     Airik was relieved to see how smoothly it all went.

     Elliot had procured drab coveralls that let them blend right in. He had packed the minimum needed to sleep elsewhere, concentrating his efforts on the paperwork and Upton’s precious typewriter. The route Nunzio had scouted out took them down a series of hidden, narrow stairwells within the bowels of the hotel where they were ignored by the few hotel staff who saw them. Those people were all running from task to task and had little time to spend asking questions. Nunzio said that the hotel was so large that between staff turnover, shift changes, and everyone having to be in two places at once, anyone not causing trouble who looked like they belonged and had work to do tended to be ignored.

     The little group slipped out via a tertiary back door that opened onto a quiet alley. From there, they made their way to the same metro station, and disappeared into the crowd. The transtube journey was easy and they arrived at the metro station in Dome Two.

     Above ground, Dome Two proved itself to have an immense dome, higher and bigger than that of Dome Six. It was more yellowed and mottled, obscuring the sky but being so much wider across and loftier, there was less of a feeling of being trapped under a dirty garden cloche. The air wasn’t any fresher than Dome Six’s but it, perhaps because of the size of the dome, didn’t feel as stale. Elliot had also procured a map so they set out down the winding lanes in Dome Two. It was much quieter than Dome Six had been, yet there were plenty of people on the paved roadways. Many of the buildings here in the small business district were covered with terraformers, their presence freshening the air. More surprising were the regularly placed large planters, spilling over with marigolds and pansies. There were even, tucked in here and there, larger planters containing very small, lacy leafed trees. It was greener than Airik had expected after his experiences in Dome Six and brought a pang of homesickness for the green, green lands of Shelleen.

     It didn’t take long to leave the small, rundown business district. The area was surrounded by something very different from what Airik had observed in Dome Six or Dome Four for that matter. Dome Six had been filled with towers, all four, five, even six stories high, packed together. It made the dome feel cramped. Dome Two’s housing, at least in this area, was at once more modest and more grand. It was strangely familiar in a warped way and then Airik realized what he was seeing. The houses were miniature manor houses, far larger than what an individual family would need, and each one was surrounded by a tiny walled garden as though the house ruled its own demesne. The grand mansions of Barsoom and other free-cities, many of which were as large as Shelleen’s own manor house, had land in plenty around them unlike these tiny plots. The peasant cottages in the villages in Shelleen, although tiny compared to these buildings, had just as much land around each cottage, perhaps more.

     As they walked down the wide, paved pathways, weaving their way through the other passersby, Airik worked out the reason. It had to be the dome. Dome Two had the largest dome in Panschin -- the largest dome on Mars -- but it was still limited in how much room it had. The builders couldn’t provide a large house and then add a large garden for every house; there wasn’t enough space. Dome Six actually used its space more effectively since towers allowed a higher population density. Then why, he wondered, weren’t the major hotels and convention center located in Dome Two? It had a seedy, seen better days air about it but it was spacious compared to Dome Six. It made no practical sense.


	8. local family doesn't heed gut warning that shit will go down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OR: Veronica and the family get ready for the art show.

     “Veronica!” Shelby called through the open window. “The paths look awful! I thought you said you would rake them again.”

     “Shelby,” Veronica replied, “it is on the list.” She looked up at her sister from her own seat at the kitchen table. She had been examining the household’s bank statement. The balance was worrisomely low. “I will get to it. Right now, though, I have to sweep out the ballroom. You remember? The huge room you didn’t sweep? The one where all the paintings will go? Where the Collective tracked in all that dirt when the crates were delivered?”

     “I was busy! Can’t Florence or Lulu do it?”

     “No, they can’t. They’ve got studying to do.”

     “But they’re supposed to clean in exchange for living with us,” Shelby said sulkily. “I’ve got studying to do too.”

     “They already do plenty and how do you study to draw pictures of mud? I would think herbal tinctures and the diseases they go with are a lot harder to learn.”

     “Girls!” Auntie Neza walked into the kitchen, thumping her cane hard on the tile floor for emphasis. “Squabbling will not get any work done.”

     “But Neza, we’ve running out of time,” Shelby moaned.

     “All the more reason to find your tempers,” Neza replied coolly. “I will help you sweep out the ballroom.”

     Shelby, peering through the open window into the dim kitchen, thought of her great-aunt’s crippled hands clutching a broom and felt ashamed. “No, no, no,” she said. “I’ll do it next. I’m sorry. I’m just so worried about the show.”

     “We’ll be fine,” Veronica said soothingly. “We’ve hosted plenty of shows by now for the PanU Artists’ Collective and they’ve all gone well. We might even sell a painting or three. It could happen.”

     Shelby’s face lit up. “Do you really think so?”

     “Yes, absolutely,” Veronica lied stoutly.

     Neza said, “I agree. The show will be wonderful and we’ll sell more paintings than ever. You’ll see.”

     Shelby laughed and clapped her hands, her mood swinging back to joy from apprehension. “I get the ballroom walls and windows started right away. That way I’ll be done when everyone gets here to sweep down the walls of the house.”

     As soon as she disappeared from view and her footsteps could be heard crunching down the gravel path to the front door, Veronica turned to her aunt, her eyebrows meeting her hairline.

     “Do you really believe that? We’ll sell more paintings than ever?”

     “Not a chance.” Neza snorted with wry amusement. “Those ugly things? But Shelby’s sweeping the ballroom and it needed to be done.”

     “True.” Veronica laughed, a lilting trill of amusement.

     It gladdened Neza’s heart that she’d been able to get her niece to laugh.

     “And maybe those lazy artists will sweep down the walls without my standing over them.” Veronica chuckled again. “And set up the easels and hang the paintings when they come over to prep for the show.”

     Neza snickered. “We can dream, I suppose. That at least is free. I will be glad to get all those crates of stands unpacked. Ballroom’s full of them. Maybe we should offer to store them in the lower basement level so we don’t have to deal with delivery again.”

     “No, then we’d have to get the Collective to haul the crates up and down two flights of stairs every time we hosted a showing. And we’d be responsible for their upkeep and maintenance. Let the Collective pay for warehousing someplace else,” Veronica replied. “We shouldn’t do it for free and that’s what they’d expect.”

     Neza sat down at the table next to Veronica with a sigh of relief at getting off her feet. “Back to business. How much money do we have left?”

     Veronica frowned at the bank statement. “Not very much. The mining conference started and I was really expecting we’d get a guest or two. You know how crowded Panschin becomes. And, well, this time nothing.”

     She handed the statement to Neza who looked, then looked again to see if the numbers would change. Her face fell as the columns of figures flatly refused to rearrange themselves to suit the household’s needs.

     “Damnation,” Neza said. “I hadn’t realized we were so close to the bottom.”

     “I know.” Veronica sighed wearily and slumped down still further onto the table. “Those cardoon seeds turned out to be a waste of money. Half the seeds didn’t sprout and the ones that did died. I shouldn’t have run that ad in the Panschin Gazette. Nobody saw it. I shouldn’t have bought those sketchbooks for Shelby or those new pencils.”

     Neza looked over the kitchen thoughtfully, observing the collection of cooking utensils hanging over the stove and the cupboards now half-full of dishes. “We could sell some of the furnishings in the B&B wing. The furniture is horribly old-fashioned but it’s very well made and sturdy. The drapes are still in good condition too. We could sell some more of the china as well.”

     She heaved herself back up and limped over to the wall of cupboards and started opening doors on the cabinets that still held things.

     Veronica thoughtfully studied the shelves in the open cupboard as Neza held the door wide. Only the lower ones still held dishes. “No, not yet,” she said. “The conference isn’t over. We have to have furnished rooms if someone shows up as a guest. People won’t pay to sleep on the floor when they can sleep in the park for free. And they expect dishes to eat off of.”

     Neza smiled dryly, then carefully asked, “any chance of a magazine article selling?” She closed the cabinet doors and came back to the table, grateful to sit down again.

     Veronica turned away to stare out of the window onto her constricting world. “No, another set of rejections.”

     She fingered her necklace, enjoying the cool feel of the gray and white beads and wished she could see a piece of the sky between the houses instead of the confining dome. She straightened up, turned back to Neza and said in a determined voice, “I’ve got a new crop of lettuces and some other veg coming in. I know the Dappled Yak will buy it all. We can hang on for a few more months.”

     “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

     Both women turned to see Shelby, standing in the doorway, her hand on the frame to support her. Her face was pale and her eyes very wide and fearful. Her jaw trembled.

     “Shelby,” Veronica said, “How long have you been listening?”

     “Long enough,” Shelby answered hotly. “I wouldn’t have asked for those sketchbooks if I knew you didn’t have the money. Or those pencils. Why didn’t you say something?”

     After a moment of waiting, Neza answered for Veronica, who had her eyes closed and her mouth shut tight. “You needed them, dear girl.”

     Veronica showed no signs of wanting to talk yet, with her shoulders hunched over waiting for another blow, so Neza added, “you have real talent. Mrs. Grisson told me already how happy she was with your first portrait of her oldest granddaughter.”

     “Don’t change the subject,” Shelby said, stumbling towards the table. She pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. “You haven’t been telling me things. Why not? Aren’t I part of this family?”

     She made a grab for the bank statement, failing because Veronica slapped her hand down on the offending paper and pulled it away from her sister’s grasp.

     “Don’t you trust me to know what’s going on?” Shelby asked. “Do you think I’m that selfish and stupid?” She wiped away an angry tear. Neza nudged her own chair closer to Shelby to put a comforting arm around her niece. Shelby pulled away, refusing the comfort she normally sought at every opportunity.

     Veronica raised her head and considered her sister carefully. She thought of what Lulu had said previously about Shelby acting so young. Maybe the time for shielding Shelby from the harsher realities of life was over. Shelby was old enough to know what was going on.

     For heaven’s sakes, Veronica thought ruefully. She had been married when she was Shelby’s age. She sighed over the mistake marrying Dean Kangjuon had turned out to be. Handsome, charming, well-connected; he had been so much fun. She had fallen madly in love with Dean and she was sure he felt the same for her since he said so all the time. They had lived a charmed life; playing house in the White Elephant, attending classes at PanU, and socializing with so many friends. Dean knew everybody, it seemed, and that meant parties and get-togethers several times a week.

     And then he had cut and run minutes after the Bradwell troubles had begun. It kept getting harder to trust people, people you thought you knew, when every time you did you turned out to be wrong.

     She watched Shelby sitting there, not speaking, although her unhappy silence said volumes. Veronica sighed deeply, drawing the other two women’s eyes towards her. What would Shelby do when faced with the truth? It was time to find out.

     “All right, Shelby,” she said. “You are part of the family and you should know.” Veronica pushed the bank statement to Shelby who lifted it up to her eyes. She puzzled over it, running down the column of expenditures that did not match the column of deposits. Shelby frowned and frowned and frowned hardest of all when she reached the bottom of the page.

     She looked up, over the table, running her eyes across the cupboards of familiar dishes and stared out the window while Neza and Veronica watched her silently, waiting to see what she would say.

     “All right then,” Shelby whispered. She swallowed audibly. “I’ll quit school and get a job.” Her voice got stronger. “They always want waitresses and chars in Dome Six.”

     Veronica and Neza exchanged appalled glances. It was gratifying to realize that Shelby wasn’t going to dissolve into a puddle of tears and woe, but there were things she didn’t know. Veronica raised her eyebrows and looked quizzically at Neza. Did she want to address the situation they had both been avoiding since the day Shelby started classes at PanU with such high hopes?

     Neza refused to meet Veronica’s eyes, staring down at the tabletop. Its bamboo surface was polished smooth from decades of use and reflected her lined face like a mirror. Veronica watched her great-aunt’s pursed lip reflection and sighed deeply again. She was going to have to say it.

     “Shelby, that is so very sweet of you to offer,” Veronica said carefully. “We appreciate it. Truly we do. But you can’t quit PanU.”

     Shelby stared at her sister in puzzlement. Veronica regularly had plenty of things to say about the PanU art department and how it prepared its graduates for the future but almost always her statements had been negative.

     “Why not?” she finally asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I just walk away from the scholarship you got me at the end of the semester. It’s coming up in a few weeks. They’ll give the money to someone else.”

     Veronica stared harder at Neza’s reflection, willing her to speak so she didn’t have to.

     “Well,” Shelby asked again. “Why not?”

     This time, Neza received Veronica’s message.

     “Because, dear girl,” Auntie Neza answered unwillingly, “you didn’t get a scholarship.”

     Shelby turned to stare at her aunt. “What? But why else would they take me? They looked at my portfolio. We didn’t have any money to pay PanU. I wouldn’t be going there if they hadn’t given me a scholarship. I thought that’s what happened.”

     Veronica reached over and squeezed both Shelby and Neza’s hands. “That’s what we tried to do, sweetie. But that bastard Vitebskin didn’t like your portfolio. He refused to let you have the art scholarship.”

     Neza said, “but I knew you really wanted to go there. You have such talent, dear girl. I’ve never seen anyone who can draw as well as you can. So, I made a deal with the bursar’s office. I got a discount for you on tuition by paying for all eight semesters at once in cash. I emptied out the last of my trust fund to do so.”

     Shelby’s jaw fell and she started to shake. Her fingers made clutching motions so Neza pushed over a napkin for her to twist.

     “There’s no refund,” Veronica added. “If you quit, we’re out that investment in your future. You have to stick it out and get your degree.”

     After another long silence, broken by Shelby’s gasping for air while her world rearranged itself around her, Neza said, “Your sister and I wanted to do the best we could for you.”

     At that, Shelby stood abruptly, still clutching the napkin. “What’s best for me? What’s best for me? Maybe you should have asked me! You could have told me. I always thought I wasn’t doing something right in the studio and now I know why! It’s because I was never good enough to begin with.” She wiped away some angry tears.

     Veronica leaped to her feet. “You _are_ good enough, Shelby. That stupid, self-righteous ass of a professor is the problem. He’s an idiot and he wouldn’t recognize a decent painting if he was hit over the head with one. Look at what he wants everyone to paint! Ugly pictures that look like what comes out of a nightsoil cesspool.”

     Her voice got louder.

     “No landscapes, no vases of flowers, no portraits, and lordy, lordy, lordy, the things he has to say about kittens are insane. He got _you_ to parrot that stupid dross and you adore kittens! He’s an idiot and he wants everyone to follow him down a mineshaft of idiocy and ugliness because he couldn’t draw something recognizable if you held a knife to his throat!”

     “He’s a genius!” Shelby snapped back.

     “He’s a moron!” Veronica returned. “A lecherous, narrow-minded egotist.”

     “He is not.”

     “He is. If he was a genius, he’d make money from his own paintings instead of telling other people how to throw dirt at a canvas.”

     “You are wrong.”

     “Shelby,” Veronica said. “I still have some contacts at PanU even though I didn’t manage to graduate because of what happened to us when dad, well, did what he did. Vitebskin’s got everyone in the art department fooled. He’s got tenure and he knows where all the bodies are buried.”

     She did not add what she had heard via this source of information about Professor Vitebskin’s reaction to Shelby’s portfolio. He thought it bourgeois, derivative, trite, middle-brow, lifeless, and twee, statements he slashed in bold red ink across her application to ensure everyone who reviewed it knew his opinion. Veronica’s source told her that Professor Vitebskin could be counted on saying this kind of thing if there was even a single image of a cat in a portfolio no matter what the portfolio actually looked like or how accomplished it was.

     However, Shelby liked kittens and cats. She desperately missed their cat, Madame Fluff, who had been sold when they lost everything. She had included several loving portraits of Madame Fluff in her portfolio, more than enough to send Professor Vitebskin over the edge and down the shaft into the deepdown. If only, Veronica thought again, they had known in advance what set Vitebskin off. She would have ensured Shelby only included acceptable drawings that would garner the precious scholarship.

     Shelby’s yelling snapped her focus back to the present.

     “Well then why did you spend all of Neza’s trust fund to send me to PanU?” Shelby shouted. “I could have gone to PCC and spent way less money and we’d not be in this fix right now!”

     “Because I was hoping you’d meet someone decent at PanU and get your Mrs. degree!” Neza said loudly. She thumped her cane on the floor, hard. “You’re still a Bradwell and you deserve a better husband than anyone you’d meet at PCC.”

     Shelby gaped at her aunt, for once at a loss of words. Then she turned onto her sister. Veronica had her mouth snapped tightly closed and her eyes were blazing.

     “You let auntie Neza do this? Veronica, how could you? You’re always supposed to be so sensible. Get my Mrs. degree? Who even does that these days? You don’t go to school to catch a husband. You go to school to get an education that will get you a decent job!”

     Neza thumped her cane onto the floor again, harder. She kept on thumping her cane until she got their silent attention. “I wanted this, Shelby,” she said firmly. “You’re a Bradwell and a Molony. Maybe that doesn’t mean much anymore, not our branch of the family, but it used to mean a lot. It was my money and I wanted the best possible chance for you.”

     Shelby turned back onto her sister. “And what about you? Going along with such a …” Seeing Neza’s hurt expression, Shelby stopped herself in time from adding ‘stupid idea.’

     Veronica let go of her string of beads and traced out the grain of the bamboo tabletop with a fingertip so she did not have to look at her sister.

     “It was auntie Neza’s money so it was her choice, but I had to agree. You’ve got real talent and I hoped that you’d learn to paint really well at PanU. PCC has a good commercial art department, I checked, but I didn’t think you’d be happy drawing ladies’ dresses for department store ads. You’re very creative and PanU seemed the best chance to nurture your talents. And yes, maybe you would meet someone nice there. Someone with prospects.”

     Shelby breathed out deeply and sat back down in her chair.

     After another long, empty silence, she said, “so I’m stuck.”

     “I’m afraid so,” Veronica replied. “You have to get that degree, it’s already paid for.”

     “It was the best choice I could make at the time, dear girl,” auntie Neza said, reaching again for Shelby’s hand. This time, Shelby didn’t pull away. “You’re so talented and I wanted so much for you to be happy.”

     “We’ll muddle through,” Veronica added. “We always do. The show’s coming up, I get half the door receipts, and if we make it a really good one, maybe we’ll sell some paintings. I’ll earn my commission and we’ll manage another couple of months.”

     Shelby turned to her great-aunt with cold, angry eyes. “You want me to get my Mrs. degree. If marrying is so important, then why didn’t you? And look what happened to Veronica! We all thought Dean was wonderful and look how that turned out.”

     Neza frowned awfully at her younger niece, then sat back in her chair with resignation. All her years showed on her face and the slump of her shoulders. “I made mistakes, Shelby. I said no when perhaps I shouldn’t have. It worked out, I suppose. I thought so for years. Then Veronica and Dean moved in and the house was full of family for the first time in years. Then your dad, well, you know.” Her voice trailed off.

     “Yeah,” Veronica said sourly. “Dad.”

     All three women looked out into the past, a past that had led to a very different future than any of them would have expected.

     Neza continued, “Shelby, your father did awful things but for me, it turned out to be the best thing in years when you and your mother moved in. I know Dean left, but I had you, Veronica, and your mom. It was a real joy to get to spend so much time with your mother before she passed. And every day that you’ve been here has been a joy for me.”

     She squeezed Shelby’s hand. “Shelby, I had no idea how much I missed by not marrying and having a family until you moved in. I can’t go back and change the past but I could give you a chance to meet someone, someone you could start a family with.”

     Shelby looked all around the kitchen, thinking of all the times she had walked home from PanU with Lulu and Florence. She had never once wanted to meet any of the young men they knew from their own classes at PCC. She had always refused their offers and she had never told anyone why. She didn’t get dates at PanU either. She was always afraid of someone finding out about what dear old dad had done. Would someone from PCC have cared?

     She thought of Kip McGrant who shared many of her classes. He always wanted to talk to her, even flirt a bit, but only when nobody else was around to see him do it. The other students at PanU weren’t much better. She tried hard to be friendly and polite, joining in whenever she could, but her efforts didn’t change facts. Nothing mattered more in Panschin than money, family background, and social status and the higher up the social ladder you were, the more they mattered. And here Neza actually believed that she’d meet some nice young man from a good family and marry him. As soon as any nice young man found out about her background, he’d be out the door so fast it wouldn’t have slammed shut by the time he was running down the street. And if he didn’t object, his family would.

     She could have gotten a date or two, but the young men who had asked, well. They wanted her because they wouldn’t have to pay for her company but otherwise, she’d be treated just the same as any prostitute. Used, discarded, and then forgotten; certainly never taken home and introduced to the family. She thought of Kip again. He’d never once even asked her out for tea and a bun at the roach coach between classes, something everyone else did routinely with their friends.

     She thought of Dean and how happy Veronica and both families had been when they married. Then dear old dad’s criminal activities were discovered, the Kangjuon family insisted on the divorce, and Dean didn’t fight them very hard at all. It had been like Veronica turned into a cave troll right in front of his eyes. What a spineless leech. He still came around to chat up Veronica even though he refused to stand up to his own family on her behalf.

     Her sister remained coolly civil to her former husband and wouldn’t speak badly of him or his family when outside of the safe walls of the White Elephant. Her opinion was it was all water down the shaft and there was no point in dwelling on the past. Even so, Shelby didn’t think Veronica would ever forgive Dean’s betrayal. It was easier to be angry at Dean than their father.

     After another long, empty silence, Shelby said “A nice boy from a good family like the Kangjuons. Remember them?” She stared daggers at her sister.

     Veronica winced. Her former mother-in-law had been the instigating force behind the divorce, and Dean hadn’t fought his mother on the subject. Mrs. Kangjuon had been friendly enough when she thought the Bradwell family was a valued connection. Afterwards, well, it turned out Mrs. Kangjuon believed in a scorched soil policy when dealing with unwanted former relatives. Her behavior was the reason Veronica was relieved she and Dean had never managed to have a baby during their marriage. A child would have tied her to the Kangjuons forever. She started when Shelby began talking again.

     “I can accept the idea that PanU would give me more scope for my so-called talent than PCC would. But how can either of you say that I would meet someone nicer at PanU than I would at PCC?”

     “It is a better, more exclusive, expensive school,” Neza began.

     Shelby twisted around in her seat and glared at her great-aunt. “Better! Look at Dean. He came from a good family and they couldn’t dump Veronica fast enough when everything that dad did came out. You really think that after that, how dad cheated all those people, anyone from a ‘good family’,” Shelby made quotes in the air with her fingers, “would have anything to do with me? I never talk about the past at PanU. I’m afraid of what people would say. They’d cut me and you know it.”

     She thought of Kip again, always cheerful and ready to talk but nearly always when they were alone.

     Veronica said wearily, “department store adverts, Shelby. Think of a lifetime spent drawing ladies’ shoes. Or pickaxes.”

     Shelby whipped around to glare at Veronica. “At least a job drawing adverts would bring in money. And what, you think I couldn’t do better? Eventually? I could keep working on my own art in my free time and I wouldn’t have to worry about digging manky paintbrushes out of recycling bins and salvaging them! I’d have money to pay for real supplies.”

     “Maybe you could have,” Veronica said even more tiredly. “But it’s done now.”

     “What you’re really saying is I don’t have any talent. I have to depend on some man to take care of me.”

     Veronica leaped to her feet again, re-energized. “That is not what I’m saying! Don’t put words into my mouth.”

     Shelby stood up so fast she shook the table. “It _is_. If I had talent, I wouldn’t be failing everything I do there.”

     “Because of him! Stop believing _him_ and start believing in yourself!”

     “That’s _enough_!” Neza shouted. “Stop this arguing right now. It gets us nowhere. Be quiet while we think. Not another _word_.”

     Veronica sat back down as did Shelby, more slowly. Both girls fumed as they resolutely refused to look at each other or at their great-aunt. Instead, all three women stared at the kitten illustration on the calendar. Its huge, unblinking green eyes stared back at them.

     “Maybe I should go over to the bursar’s office again,” Neza said, breaking the angry silence. She had a thoughtful, far-away look on her face as though something new, something she had never before considered had suddenly appeared in the distance in front of her.

     “What good would that do? You already paid. You said yourself that money is lost,” Shelby said hotly. “I’m stuck with a school that thinks I’m an incompetent mushroom.” She did not add ‘and people who think I’m a waste of space’ although she thought it.

     “You are not incompetent,” Veronica said firmly. “Do not listen to that idiot professor. He’s still pissed off about Clyde Monez and the ore-cars of money he made drawing kitten pictures along with the fact that idiot couldn’t draw his own way out of a wet paper bag.”

     “Clyde Monez has talent and I don’t!”

     “Clyde Monez probably wasn’t any more talented at your age than you are, even if he was plenty sneakier. But he knew something we didn’t,” Veronica said. “He knew Vitebskin hates cats. If we’d known that little fact, I’d have made sure your portfolio was exactly what Vitebskin liked and you’d have gotten that scholarship.”

     “ _Maybe_ I would have won a scholarship but you don’t _know_ that I would have,” Shelby retorted. “Maybe Professor Vitebskin would have still thought my drawings were crappy even without Madame Fluff’s portraits.”

     Neza thumped her cane again, trying to seize the floor and get the debate back where she wanted it. “PanU and PCC have some ties. You know they do. They share facilities and some of the professors moonlight. I might be able to persuade the bursar at PanU to transfer enough money for Shelby to take classes at PCC in place of PanU’s classes.”

     “Oh Neza,” Shelby groaned. “And what good would that do? They won’t give a refund on the difference. You said so yourself that money’s gone.”

     “Much as it pains me right now to say this, but Shelby is right,” Veronica said. “What good would it do?”

     Neza lifted her cane and pointed at the kitten illustration. The red bow gleamed against the kitten’s black and white fur. The long ribbon ends artfully draped over the kitten’s back and curled gracefully around its paws.

     “See that painting on the calendar? Shelby, you draw almost as well as that illustration is drawn. Clyde Monez didn’t learn to draw commercial illustrations at PanU. He did it at PCC. Why can’t you draw kittens and puppies and flowers and people for illustrations? Mrs. Grisson said your drawing of her granddaughter was just like she had been turned into a paper-doll and moreover, she said all her boarders agreed.”

     “Hmm,” said Veronica, sitting up suddenly and blinking. Her mind raced down the new trail that Neza had blazed. “Hmmm.”

     “Almost as well?” said Shelby. “Almost as well? That means I’m not nearly as good as Clyde Monez.”

     Veronica glared at her sister and then at the kitten illustration. “Shut up, Shelby, and listen. We didn’t know what an idiot Vitebskin was until it was much too late. We do know you’re talented. If auntie Neza can get PanU to let you take classes at PCC, you could quietly take the commercial art classes that would teach you to do magazine illustrations and calendar art. Nobody would know. You’d be like Clyde Monez. You’d have the fancy degree from PanU and the useful training from PCC. It could work.”

     “But Neza said herself that I’m not as good as Clyde Monez! I’m not as good as _that_ artist is,” Shelby pouted. She pointed again towards the kitten hanging on the wall.

     Veronica snarled wordlessly at the ceiling in her frustration. Did her little sister want to give up?

     Neza rolled her eyes in exasperation. She did love Shelby dearly but sometimes, it seemed Shelby liked drama for its own sake, a tendency that made her ears not work as well as they should.

     “Yes, Shelby,” Neza said firmly, “you’re not as skilled as that artist is, right now. But you _will_ be with time and practice. We just have to get there.”

     “Neza’s right, Shelby,” Veronica said. “We keep trying. If you give up, then Vitebskin wins. Do you really believe what that idiot has to say about you and your art? You’re much better than he’s willing to admit to and I hope, I hope!, deep down you know it. Look at that picture. How would you make it better?”

     Shelby glowered at the kitten illustration. She’d never liked how the artist had drawn the kitten’s eyes. They seemed so flat and lifeless to her. And the ribbons didn’t float like they should. On the other hand, technically speaking, the artist was flawless at painting kitten fur. However, beautifully painted fur didn’t make kittens look lifelike. Their eyes and expressions made an observer coo over their cuteness, not the swirls patterned into their fur. But could she draw as beautifully, as realistically, as enticingly as this artist had, despite the obvious flaws? Was she the only person who saw those flaws?

     The gate hinges shrieked, startling all three women, making them jump. Loud voices came pouring in through the open window and many, many footsteps were heard crunching down the gravel path leading to the front door.

     ‘Saved,’ Shelby thought. “They’re here.” She leaped to her feet. “We’ve got to get the White Elephant swept down and set up.”

     “So they are,” her sister added. “And right on time too.”

     Veronica was relieved as well. Sweeping down the walls of the White Elephant would be a dirty, tiresome job but it would give her time to think over what Neza was proposing. Better, it would give Shelby time to think about it too. Could Neza do it? Veronica thought about her few remaining friends at PanU. One of them might know something and could suggest who to talk to. Lulu and Florence? Hmm. Probably not. The PCC school of nursing didn’t have anything to do with the commercial arts wing.

     Someone pounded on the front door.

     Shelby headed out towards the kitchen door. She called back “don’t anybody talk about this in front of them. I’ve got a hard-enough time at PanU as it is.”

     “No worries on that score,” Veronica said. “You take the ballroom with Neza and I’ll handle the outside crew. I can’t be having any of those idiots trampling my vegetable beds.”

     As soon as Shelby was out of earshot, Veronica said to their aunt, “we have to do this, get Shelby into PCC. I did _not_ like what she implied about how she’s treated at PanU.”

     Neza grimaced. “No. I’ll have to ask her what’s really going on as opposed to what little she’s said. She might be willing to tell me the truth now.”

     Veronica laughed ruefully. “As opposed to her big, overbearing sister, I suppose. I’ll scrub terraformers off walls myself in Dome Six if we can get Shelby into PCC. She has a chance.”

     “And what about you, my dear Veronica?” Neza asked. “What about your chances?”

     Veronica hugged her great-aunt tightly. “One crisis at a time, Neza. First the show, then Shelby, and then me.”

     Neza met Veronica’s light brown eyes, the same eyes as her mother and her own. “You’re a Bradwell and a Molony too, dear girl. You shouldn’t be scrubbing walls or floors any more than Shelby should.”

     Veronica smiled ruefully at her great-aunt. “Maybe so, but our creditors don’t care.”

******

     It took the rest of the afternoon to get the White Elephant’s exterior walls swept down. It was the same old story. Every time she hosted a show for the PanU Artists’ Collective, Veronica thought wearily, she had to insist on a careful, thorough job, sweeping the new growth of terraformers off every flat surface and not just the walls that faced the street within easy reach. Some of the crew that showed up had been here for previous shows so they should have known this was part of the rent the Collective paid for her turning her home into an art gallery. They got an immense, airy space to spread out in and she got clean, white walls to amplify what little sunshine the dome allowed through.

     “No!” Veronica shouted. “Do not step into the beds. That’s food growing there, not algae.”

     “Sorry.”

     “Aack! Don’t break the windows with the push-brooms! Gently!” She waved her arms madly at the offenders trying to get their attention.

     “Oopsies.”

     “Why are you guys standing around? Do you think these walls will sweep themselves clean of terraformers?”

     “Just taking a break, Veronica.”

     “You just got here. You don’t need a break yet.”

     “Hey, day laborers should be doing this kind of work. I’ve got delicate hands made for fine art.”

     Veronica put her own, decidedly undelicate hands on her hips as she glared over at the complaining student. He sneered at her insolently, making her even madder. She didn’t know which was more irritating, his nerve or his laziness. Was this jerk one of the ones making Shelby miserable?

     She marched towards him, suddenly furious.

     “If you expect to show your painting at the show tomorrow, you will work. Otherwise, the deal’s off for the whole pack of you. I will cancel the exhibit and you can tell Professor Vitebskin he can find another, empty ballroom on short notice.” Veronica stepped up to the suddenly unsure student and grabbed the front of his department-store coverall with both hands, surprising him with her strength, as she forced him to meet her eyes.

     “Do you understand me?” she snarled right into his face.

     He stared at her in shock. Veronica let go and he straightened himself up sulkily.

     “I was just making a joke,” he mumbled as he turned away.

     “I don’t have a sense of humor. Get back to work. Hey look! There’s Professor Vitebskin now.” Veronica pointed outside the White Elephant’s tiny walled garden towards the Professor striding down the street like he owned it. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to discuss moving the show to a new ballroom.”

     The offending student blanched and gasped, while the other members of the Collective glared at him and muttered balefully among themselves. The ones who didn’t have brooms or other cleaning tools in their hands picked them up. There was -- as Veronica knew full well -- no usable, empty ballroom to be had on short notice, not when the Biennial Mining Conference was in full swing, and certainly not as cheaply as the White Elephant or as conveniently located to PanU.

     ‘Artists!’ Veronica thought with contempt. ‘Spineless, lazy, and entitled.’

     “Miss Bradwell,” Professor Vitebskin said as he strode up the gravel path. She noticed he didn’t bother closing the gate. He gave Veronica the lingering once over. Then he winked at her. “Everyone working hard, I trust?”

     “Almost everyone, Professor,” Veronica replied smoothly. She cast a threatening glance over the suddenly hardworking crew of students. They all carefully avoided meeting her gaze, focusing intently on the task in front of them, some of them for the first time since their arrival.

     “You know there’s always someone who wants the rest of the Collective to do their work for them while they sit back and reap the glory,” she added.

     Professor Vitebskin, tall, debonair, smartly turned out in a well-fitted coverall that had been artistically shredded down the legs and sleeves and painstakingly decorated with aesthetic spatters of color-coordinated paint, spun on his heel to get a better look at his students. He watched them industriously sweeping down the walls, paying close attention to the trim around the windows. He also observed the numerous missed patches of algae, the multicolored splotches standing out against the white walls of the building.

     “So I see. Was there shirking, Miss Bradwell?”

     “Not anymore, Professor Vitebskin. You inspire your students with your presence,” Veronica said and she smiled winningly at him. It was even true. The student crew was working as diligently as she’d ever seen. Even as they watched, the offending patches of algae and moss were swept clean, leaving the White Elephant to gleam again.

     He preened complacently. “So I do. How’s the ballroom coming along?”

     “I don’t know,” Veronica said. “I’ve been busy out here. However, Shelby and auntie Neza are supervising inside so I have hopes that it will be sparkling.”

     Professor Vitebskin allowed himself another long, enjoyable glance over Veronica’s lush figure only partly hidden by a baggy old coverall and arched his eyebrow at her. “As sparkling as the building is outside?”

     “Maybe,” she replied. “You’ll have to see for yourself.” ‘Get inside, you lecher,’ Veronica thought. ‘You make me feel slimy.’

     The thought rose unbidden of the thug who had visited a few days ago, asking after the lease on the White Elephant. He hadn’t been back and no one had seen or heard anything. She pushed the thought firmly away. No use borrowing trouble when she had plenty on her hands to deal with standing around her.

     “Everything’s under control here, Professor. I know auntie Neza will want to consult with you about the placement of the easels.”

     “Of course she will,” the professor replied. “She lacks vision.”

     He spun back and surveyed his students, some of whom were now perched on ladders trying to reach the sections below the pseudo-roof tiles in their efforts to impress Professor Vitebskin with their keenness. Veronica watched too, hoping no one slipped and fell to their death. She couldn’t afford that calamity, despite her need for pristine, reflective walls to better grow her produce and earn some coin.

     “Well, that’s better,” said the professor. “Miss Bradwell?”

     “Yes, professor?”

     He raised his voice. “I’ll return after inspecting the ballroom. I expect perfection and nothing less.”

     “Of course, Professor Vitebskin,” Veronica said. “I’ll remind your students, just in case they forget in the next ten minutes.”

     He let his smile linger on her a few moments longer than necessary and then sauntered down the gravel path around the house. Veronica watched him go, noticing that yes, someone – not him, she was positive – had ironed his coverall after scrubbing it immaculately clean. There wasn’t a single stain, smear, shredded area, or rip present other than what would enhance its fashionable appearance. She looked down at her own well-worn, grubby, wrinkled coverall. Every worn spot was one her coverall had earned through hard service as was every stain. She didn’t waste energy sewing down decorative patches; all her mismatched patches covered holes and rips and were designed to squeeze out a few more years of use from the garment.

     ‘Artists with money,’ Veronica thought, and rolled her eyes again.

     She looked up at the group of students currently supposed to be scraping the sweater of terraformers from the cornices and yelled “hey! Quit shirking! The professor’s gone but I’m not!”

****

     As Professor Vitebskin strolled around the White Elephant, he considered the problem of Veronica Bradwell and more importantly, her sister Shelby. Veronica was attractive enough in her own way but she had a distressing independence of mind. Oh, she was always properly respectful towards him but there was still that slight air that said she didn’t really mean it. She was respectful because she had to be and the second she didn’t have to respect him anymore, she’d quit and be glad.

     Shelby, now, there was a delectable morsel. Tall, willowy, lovely bone structure, glowingly even skin, naïve, and desperate to fit in. No real talent of course but with that face and body, she didn’t need any talent to be an acceptable bed partner. She tried so hard in his classes, struggling for his approval, and yet, she didn’t let herself take that next step to attract his attention. It was as if she recognized how little artistic ability she had and coming on to him for a better grade would prove it to the world. Terrible family background of course, which made her completely unacceptable as a potential candidate for Mrs. Vitebskin number four.

     Professor Vitebskin thought of the soon-to-be-former Mrs. Vitebskin number three and shuddered theatrically. The divorce was going to be very expensive but what could he do? It was time to move on, get that barren witch out of his house and her nasty, sly, sneaking cat along with her. Cinnamon would be pleased as well, although losing the cat meant his precious dog lost his favorite chew toy. On the other hand, unlike the witch, Shelby Bradwell worshipped him for the genius he was. Her adoration and beauty would certainly make for an enjoyable, casual liaison. Co-eds could be so much fun and they so rarely were willing to say anything untoward afterwards. It was too embarrassing for them to admit how silly and immature they were.

     The professor stopped at the grand double front door to the White Elephant, struck by a sudden thought. Shelby would be a sweet treat but having the house to use for huge gallery showings was far more valuable. If he pursued her, she might say something to that irritating sister of hers or her great-aunt. The great-aunt might be too genteel to say anything but Veronica would undoubtedly make a fuss, starting with refusing to ever host an art exhibit for the PanU Artists’ Collective again. He’d have to make other, far more expensive arrangements. PanU’s own display facilities, while convenient, were completely inadequate to fulfil his visions.

     No, Shelby Bradwell, despite her delicious and lovely neediness, was out of bounds. At least for now. Professor Vitebskin smiled complacently at his reflection in the freshly polished pink glass window set into the door. If he was patient and scattered a few crumbs of praise, Shelby might approach him all on her own and then nobody could complain about _his_ morals.

 


	9. creepy professor does creepy thinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inside the ballroom as the White Elephant prepares for the show.

     Professor Vitebskin did not bother knocking at the door and waiting for admittance. He knew no servant would open it for him as the family was too poor to employ one and anyways, he was supposed to be here. Shelby was expecting him.

     He pushed open the door and stepped into the grand, empty atrium brilliantly illuminated by light cascading through the enormous roof opening two stories overhead. The wide, polished, outdated hall table was the only piece of furniture. The two curved staircases rising to the second floor and then the rooftop terrace above framed the space. Their elaborately carved, golden balustrades added just the right, florid touch, glinting in the yellowed sunlight the dome permitted. He turned around slowly, admiring all the blank wall space just waiting to display the paintings of his most favored students. Shelby Bradwell would not be in that august group, although, perhaps, hmm. No, it was far too soon to toss her a crumb this large. She still had many semesters of school to go and he had plenty of time for her. Other sweet young co-eds abounded.

     No, he shook his head regretfully. An affair with any student right now might come to the attention of the witch and would cost him dearly in the upcoming divorce. That barren witch, the professor thought grimly, knew quite well how _she_ had supplanted Mrs. Vitebskin number two and was always on the lookout for potential younger, presumably fertile rivals. It would be foolhardy to provide her or her lawyers with ammunition.

     ‘So, pure and unadulterated art it is,’ he decided. ‘Who would best benefit from being showcased in this marvelous space?’

     He stroked his fashionably razored short beard as he considered how the sunshine from far above would flow over the walls, illuminating the paintings in a way that oil lamps never could, followed by a slow, sensuous decline into twilight and velvety gray darkness. Then the oil lamps would be lit, their flickering light showcasing different aspects of the same paintings. Could he persuade the Bradwells to turn on their expensive electric fixtures? They would insist the Collective reimburse them for the cost and that would be an argument he might not win. More seriously, was the quality of electric light as warm and rich as what the oil lamps provided? Electric light was steady and boring, never changing and that made it dull. No, it was better and more aesthetic to not bother. And all the while, no matter what he chose, the opening overhead would continue to provide a soft, low-key glow but it would no longer flood the space with light as it did during the day. Rather, it would act as an unobtrusive focal counterpoint to whatever lighting he chose, there but not there.

     It was a demanding and aesthetic challenge, particularly since each painting he selected would not be isolated, to be admired alone, but instead be surrounded by its fellows, competing for the eye of the viewer. Moreover, the paintings he chose for the atrium would set the tone for the rest of the paintings in the ballroom. Which ones should be saved for the grand finale? What paintings could stand alone? Were there those that would only look their best when contrasted with another? What would be the best order of presentation? Paintings would progress from the atrium and around the ballroom so the show would build like a visual symphony, its finale surprising, yet inevitable and correct, when the viewer evaluated what had led to that exact moment.

     “Professor Vitebskin, you surprised me,” Auntie Neza said, right in his ear. “I didn’t hear a knock at the door.”

     He jumped, his trance broken, disconcerted at how quietly the stooped old lady moved with that tacky cane of hers. She had, for some mysterious reason, chosen a gaudy, shiny hot-pink enamel finish rather than something more appropriately sedate. That pink, the professor thought with a grimace, was a color only suitable for a teenager’s nail polish and even then, only when he would never have to personally observe it.

     “Veronica told me to come on in,” he replied quickly, mentally cursing himself for feeling a twinge of guilt over how he and the PanU Artists’ Collective were using the Bradwell family’s sole asset. The Collective should have been paying far more for this elegant space and the even more spacious, high-ceiling ballroom than with just door receipts, commissions on any sold paintings, white-washing, and cleaning the building free of Panschin’s ubiquitous carpet of terraformers. This space was worth real money.

     When Shelby Bradwell had showed up in his studio classrooms, after he had rejected her wretched portfolio, Professor Vitebskin had made a point of finding out how a scholarship needing girl had been able to afford PanU. The bursar’s secretary had been deliciously accommodating and told him everything one night after an exhilarating tussle between the sheets. He had then carefully investigated this social-climbing interloper and discovered all the facts about the Bradwell family and what Mr. Bradwell had inflicted on his clients.

     It was all very sad.

     Shelby Bradwell should have never been admitted by PanU as it showed a distinct lowering of standards on both the social and the artistic levels. Nonetheless, as the Professor admired the ornate crown molding rather than meet the old biddy’s piercing gaze, he had to admit Shelby Bradwell’s home was useful. She had offered it to the PanU Artists’ Collective in exchange for acceptance and they had taken full advantage of her naivety and her family’s ignorance of the value contained within the White Elephant.

     “Well,” Neza Molony said tartly, “I’m glad to know that my niece gave you free range of our home.”

     “I would never presume otherwise, Ms. Molony,” the professor replied. What had happened, he wondered. The old biddy had always been sweet and welcoming at previous shows. She had a new, hostile manner.

     He said “I was admiring the atrium. It needs the right paintings, to do it and them justice. The choice of paintings for the entry, where they will be seen first by visitors, should not be a casual or hasty decision.”

     “Well, I suppose that’s true,” Neza said, sounding only somewhat mollified.

     “It is true. Now about those easel placements. Veronica implied that you needed assistance with setting them up.”

     “We wouldn’t need assistance if those lazy students of yours did more of the work, rather than expecting an old lady like me to do the heavy lifting.” She shook her garish cane at him, making him turn his head from the spectacle of it flashing in the roof opening’s light.

     “I see.” Professor Vitebskin frowned awfully as her words penetrated the shiny pink slashes her cane burned across his retinas. “More shirking. We’ll see about _that_.”

     He strode off towards the ballroom entrance thinking angrily of the Collective work party he had sent ahead to get the place set up. Those fools. Didn’t they understand how important a show like this was? He had been running adverts in all the important journals, posters had been tacked up all over Panschin, and deep-pocketed collectors would be attending to see the new crop of artists. Most importantly, everyone who saw the show would acknowledge his own genius for recognizing and nurturing new, groundbreaking talent. The artists he mentored today would fill the museums and collections of tomorrow, lauded by the ages, and every one of those artists would know who they owed their careers to: it would be him, Professor Lemuel Vitebskin with his golden eye for artistic aptitude, that’s who.

     He stopped just short of the ballroom entrance and watched silent and unnoticed, fuming at what he saw. Neza had been correct on all counts. She had no idea, even after several shows’ worth of practice, how to set up an easel for display as evidenced by the ones laying on their sides. Most of the easels sent ahead were still waiting to be unpacked, despite the work crew being fully briefed on what to do. Worse, while Shelby was struggling to open a crate, half-heartedly assisted by that feckless poseur, Kip McGrant, everyone else he had delegated was standing around gossiping. Worst of all, not a single painting had been unwrapped and placed on an easel to allow him to make the critical decisions about placement. They stood, still encased in their shipping cocoons, in anonymous stacks.

     Professor Vitebskin snarled silently at the ballroom, coldly furious. His time was extremely valuable. It was not to be wasted setting up easels or unpacking paintings. That work was for other people, people who were still on the bottom rung of the ladder of success. Every one of those students knew he made careers but did they care? Apparently not.

     Neza, standing beside him, hissed, “See? Only my Shelby wants to make the PanU Artists’ Collective show a success. She’s the reason anything got done at all. Every time there’s a show, the Collective sends over lazier students. Who chose those kids anyway?”

     Professor Vitebskin had hand-picked the delegation currently milling about uselessly but he wasn’t about to admit such a thing to the old biddy.

     He stepped forward, clapped his hands sharply and yelled “What is the meaning of this? I expected results, not this shirking and lazing about!”

     Everyone he was watching gasped, started in shock, stared at him in horror – many of them recalling suddenly that their participation in the exhibition was being graded – and sprang into action. As he and Neza watched, the crates were rapidly crowbarred open, easels assembled, and paintings unpacked. As the Collective worked feverishly, Professor Vitebskin tapped his gaspingly expensive watch (a genuine heirloom from Olde Earthe) pointedly.

     “We have a show to put on, people. A show! Important patrons will attend this show, see your paintings, and decide if any of you students are capable enough artists that they want your art hanging in their homes,” he announced, spurring still greater efforts.

     The professor strode around the ballroom as his students slaved, watching intently to see who was particularly diligent. Shelby, he noted with disgust, worked the hardest. She had the smallest amount of talent in the room -- even less than the buffoon Kip who had abandoned her to suck up to a girl more important but less attractive -- and was the least likely person present to sell a painting or acquire a patron. Yet did his more talented protégées work harder, striving for the glittering reward that lay before them? They did not.

     You would think, Professor Vitebskin thought with even more disgust as he passed a slacker who he had believed would excel, they didn’t care about a career in the fine arts and were just passing the time while they wasted their parents’ money. It was depressing, spending years of his life trying to nurture talent and this half-hearted effort was the result.

     Ingratitude, that’s what it was, and frustrating to boot. At least none of the current crop of ungrateful little lackwits showed any of the sneakiness of Clyde Monez. He now knew what to watch out for. He had made careful overtures to the instructors in the PCC commercial arts department, offering them a chance to show their own, personal efforts (pitiful though they were). In exchange, they promised to inform him if any of _his_ students were subverting a calling towards high art by prostituting themselves on the altar of commerce.

     Professor Vitebskin smiled grimly -- alarming the student who caught his expression into rearranging a previously perfectly placed painting -- thinking of his former protégé’s betrayal. If he ever caught any of his students slumming in the commercial arts, he’d toss them out of his studio forthwith. If they wanted a career drawing ladies’ shoes for department store adverts, they didn’t belong at PanU, taking up precious space. His studio and his instruction were reserved for serious artists, not commercial hacks.

 

********

     Hours later, the easels had been finally arranged to Professor Vitebskin’s satisfaction and most of them contained paintings. The ballroom and the entry hall had been swept clean again, removing all traces of packing material and student effort. The exterior of the White Elephant was as white as it could be, short of a fresh coat of whitewash and that wasn’t on the schedule for this exhibition. The gravel walks had been re-raked by a grumbling student, a sop the professor threw to Veronica after she pointed out that she would have to re-rake them to make them sparkle and she wasn’t sure if she had the time to get to the job.

     Professor Vitebskin addressed the gathering of students, Veronica, Shelby, and auntie Neza in the entry hall from his position on the second-floor landing. He gazed down at the crowd anxiously awaiting his verdict.

     “The display looks,” he paused for effect, “acceptable.”

     The waiting crowd, tired and wrung out, breathed out a collective sigh of relief.

     “For now.”

     The crowd wilted. Veronica managed to keep from groaning out loud. Neza frowned at the floor and worried over how soon she could get some more liniment for her joints from Florence. Shelby squeezed her eyes shut and wished the other students would leave. More than one person had asked her if she was related to ‘that Bradwell’. The gossip was apparently spreading at last.

     When the muttering subsided, Professor Vitebskin said, “I will return tomorrow afternoon before the show to arrange the last, few paintings from some of our graduates. Those will be delivered tomorrow. I will, at that time, make any last-minute corrections in placement. These members of the Collective,” he rattled off a list of names and the time, “must be here to assist me. I expect everyone in class tomorrow morning. No more shirking! I expect much better than this from the future artists of Panschin. Do not disappoint me.”

     Professor Vitebskin then descended the staircase slowly, watching his students for any signs of disgruntlement. Those malcontents would have to exhibit stellar workmanship in the future to offset their laziness today. Actions had consequences and it was time they learned that fact. He took his leave of the Bradwells and headed out the door of the White Elephant.

     He strode along the streets, whistling cheerfully all the way back to the PanU campus, secure in the knowledge of a job well done. Tomorrow, Professor Vitebskin knew, would be a superior show. He would make it happen.

     Back at the White Elephant, Veronica took charge as soon as the door closed behind the professor. She did not want to give anyone a chance to escape before she had her say.

     “You guys the professor said to report tomorrow? I expect you to be early! Not. On. Time. _Early!_ There’s still plenty of work to do and I want this place immaculate when the professor arrives.” She pointed her finger at each of the previously named students in turn, starting with the outside crew. “Now get out of here and close the gate behind you.”

     Veronica then positioned herself carefully on the right-side staircase, across from Neza, and watched the PanU Artists’ Collective leave the White Elephant through narrowed eyes. Not one person spoke to Shelby standing by the door, smiling and holding it open for their exits. Not a word of thanks, not a good-bye, not a statement of ‘I’ll see you tomorrow’. Her sister might have been a parlor maid for all the consideration she received. Veronica watched, stone-faced, as Shelby’s own face slowly fell and sadness settled on it.

     Shelby knew how she was regarded by the other students in the PanU art department and now Veronica knew too.

***

 

     At the end of evening, after Shelby had fallen into bed, Veronica spoke quietly to Auntie Neza.

     “It’s settled in my mind. As soon as you can, I want you to talk to the bursar’s office about PCC. Maybe we can get Shelby out of that pile of tailings. No wonder she was ready to quit and scrub floors in Dome Six.”

     Neza fumed, “the nerve of those students. This is our home and not one word of thanks to Shelby or to us do we get. I don’t see any of their families opening their home to a parade of strangers to look at ugly paintings.”

     “Nope,” Veronica replied. “I wonder if we should host the Collective again. I do get the White Elephant swept down from top to bottom, even white-washed, but it’s such a hassle dealing with the Collective, those awful paintings, and Vitebskin lording over us all. I was sure it would help Shelby but, well ….” Her voice trailed off.

     “I don’t think it does,” Neza said slowly. “Not any more. I’ll make an appointment for first thing next week.”

     “Do that. Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, what with the show and all.”

     Neza suddenly smiled at her great-niece. “It will be a better day, dear girl. We deserve one.”

     Veronica laughed, suddenly cheerful again. “Yep, a new day so why not a better one? It could happen.”

****

 

     Shelby grimly endured the morning’s classes. She was no longer just Shelby Bradwell, poor and talentless hack. She had become, overnight, Shelby Bradwell, daughter of the notorious Simon Bradwell, problem gambler, thief, swindler, liar and embezzler, who then suicided rather than face justice in the courts of Panschin or confront his defrauded victims. The fact that Shelby had nothing to do with her father’s investment business or his crimes didn’t matter at all. Wherever she went on the campus -- the classrooms, the hallways, the cafeteria, the studio, even the grassy quad -- the whispers and finger-pointing followed her. Everyone knew who she was now, making the quiet anonymity of being ignored become a huge pleasure in retrospect.

     The instructors were better behaved. They had the decency to wait until she left their presence to rehash old stories.

     It was with relief that Shelby left the campus for the long walk home to the White Elephant. She didn’t wait around today for Lulu and Florence. Even though she would see many of the students from the Collective again at home, she’d have some peace before they arrived for the final preparations. Afterwards? Well. Shelby fumed as she walked along, ignoring for the first time ever the flamboyant pansies spilling from the planters and smiling up at her. Maybe it was time to quit hosting the PanU Artists Collective. She’d still have to gut out the remaining semesters that Neza had paid for but she wouldn’t have to have those people in her home ever again.

     The question Shelby chewed over as she walked along, head down, was would Veronica agree? The money from the door receipts was needed, far more desperately than she had realized. Plus, Veronica got plenty of free labor. They would have never been able to keep the White Elephant white-washed or its exterior walls swept clean without the Collective doing those tasks. Their donated hard work allowed her sister to wring out every bit of energy from the sunshine the dome permitted through. The less prepossessing vegetables she grew were food for their own table while the more attractive specimens earned coin at the Dappled Yak, coin that Veronica used to pay the lease. That meant the Collective paid twice.

     It would be awful, whichever way Veronica chose. As she walked through the small downtown area, Shelby noticed the Dappled Yak. The restaurant had a sign in their window advertising fresh, locally grown vegetables. They were Veronica’s vegetables, although the sign didn’t say so.

     She stopped and sighed wistfully, staring through the plate glass window at the small round tables filling the room. She had never eaten there, never even gone inside past the back door to the kitchen when she helped Veronica make a delivery. Each table had a cheerful yellow gingham tablecloth, a vase with a bright red zinnia, and many of those tables had customers. Maybe the Dappled Yak would take her on as a waitress. She could do the minimum effort required by the university, work an afternoon or evening shift waiting tables, and help keep the wolf from the door. Then Shelby noticed some people she recognized from PanU sitting around a table, laughing at some joke. She’d be a joke, waiting on people who would despise her still more. It hurt to think about, but the same chance of discovery lurked if she worked almost anywhere in Dome Six. At the Dappled Yak, she’d be closer to home, closer to escape.

     Shelby shuddered, then jerked away from the window and plodded home, her head down. The day couldn’t end soon enough for her, but the gallery showing meant that she had hours and hours to endure before she could fall into bed and oblivion.

***

     Malcolm Cobb lingered over his tea, the last of his lunch, and a slice of wintenberry pie to come. He’d taken to enjoying an early lunch at the Dappled Yak. He could afford it, it was convenient, he had to eat anyway, and it got him out of the branch office of the bank. It hadn’t taken him long to realize he didn’t want to eat with his new colleagues. They watched him like hawks, looking for any fault in his table manners. It got tiring to be on guard all the time, particularly when he suspected he had to meet higher standards than they did.

     The food at the Dappled Yak was very good and he was coming to recognize how fresh the salad vegetables were. They didn’t have that off-taste that said they’d been shipped in days before from the open-air steppes farms far to the south or the metallic pong seasoning everything that came from the hydroponics facility. It was far too early in the season, or so the waitress said, to get fresh food from Panschin’s own farms. The steppes were still iced over, trapped in the thrall of the endless Martian winter. But the Dappled Yak, she noted with pride, had fresh vegetables supplied by a local grower.

     He thought about that as he sipped his tea. A local grower. Who could that be? Did that grower’s lease belong to the Second National Bank of Panschin? Agriculture was one of the many things that had never been supposed to happen in Dome Two; ornamental gardening was fine since that demonstrated good taste and money to spare. Malcolm had been immersed in leases since his arrival at the local branch office. He had been reviewing them, starting with the ones coming up for renewal, and figuring out what the wording meant.

     Leases here were stranger than what he had studied in school, as most of them dated back to Dome Two’s earliest days when it was assumed only the wealthiest people would live here and they would never move. Many of those leases had been modified extensively. But the bottom line said the lease holders could not do whatever they damn well pleased. They had to get permission first if they wanted to do something that was not in accordance with the lease.

     Did this grower ask for permission? He picked up the last radish and bit into it thoughtfully, relishing the sharp, peppery taste.

     How flexible could he be in a negotiation? He would have to persuade his supervisor who was already proving to be troublesome to work with. Desmond Wong didn’t like change, probably because any improvements in how the local branch was run would demonstrate exactly how incompetent he was in running the place. The other hacks in the office were much the same. They worked every day in the same way, like wheels turning in a comfortable and familiar rut. None of them were going places. All of them held onto their jobs because of inertia and family connections.

     It would be a shame to shut down a local grower who provided vegetables like this. This local grower, whoever he was, was quite likely one of the reasons the Dappled Yak stayed in business. The tiny business district depended on supplying local customers since no one came here from outside of Dome Two to shop or dine.

     He would have to be careful, Malcolm realized. He wanted to demonstrate the value inherent within Dome Two, not damage existing businesses. It hadn’t taken long to see how many of the local shops were hanging on by their fingernails. During his short time living in Dome Two, he had come to enjoy the openness, the freedom to walk around through the vast interior, and the fascinating mix of high culture and seedy bohemians. The cultural amenities were amazing and most of the time, they sat empty.

     A movement at the window caught his eye. He put down his fork and stared, his slice of wintenberry pie forgotten. There she was again, the brown haired, willowy beauty he saw sometimes when he was out exploring Dome Two. Her hair caught the light, making a fluffy cloud framing her beautiful face. Unusually, she was alone, not with her two regular girlfriends. More unusually, she looked miserable.

     He wondered again who she was.

     Malcolm had seen her several times now. Each time he saw her, he felt his heart wrench. He had figured out that she was probably a student at PanU based on where he usually saw her, coming and going about her business. Once he had spotted her sitting cross-legged in front of a planter of flowers, drawing something in a sketchpad. Like always, she wore a neat, clean coverall, like so many people in Panschin did, but she didn’t look to him like a low-caste girl from the mines. The way she carried herself said upper-caste. Her profile, her slim hands, her beautifully even deep blue-green complexion; they all said she was not the kind of girl who would ever talk to a jumped-up scholarship boy from the mines.

     How could a beauty like that be miserable?

     He knew what those girls were like. He’d met enough sisters and cousins of the upper-caste boys he shared classroom space with, first in various prep schools and then at the Panschin School of Business. Those charmed girls floated through their golden lives, insulated from any kind of hardship or pain. Those girls never gave him the time of day. He didn’t exist for them. Except when he did and no one was there to watch a princess from a tower in Dome Six indulge in some fun, safe slumming with a bad boy she wasn’t supposed to meet. Malcolm smirked at the window, remembering. He’d had plenty of fun too, but it was riskier for him, since he had more to lose. Unlike him, those girls wouldn’t end up in the Dirac mines on trumped up charges. It was risky, but worth it.

     This girl though. He could feel his heart seize in his chest again as he watched her expressive, woebegone face. He smiled warmly at her, standing on the sidewalk on the other side of a sheet of glass, but she didn’t see him. She never saw him. He didn’t exist for her either.

     He made a move to stand up. This time he would introduce himself, and not stand there tongue-tied. He, Malcolm Cobb, may have been a scholarship boy from the mines but he had real value. He was smart, he worked hard, he was ambitious, he was fit, he was attractive in a rough-hewn sort of way (a classmate’s sister had told him that in bed), and not one girl he’d ever been with had a problem with his company. They came back for more.

     But as Malcolm stood up, another expression flashed across her face as she stared inside the restaurant at another table of customers. She turned away from the window and vanished down the street, without ever noticing him. He was invisible, a man made of glass, and she didn’t see him.

     He sat back down again, his heart aching. He saw _her_. Malcolm stared down at the table lost in thought. Next time, he would introduce himself to that pensive beauty and then, perhaps, she would see him.

     The chipper waitress came by, happy to flirt again with a good-looking customer. He was no longer feeling flirtatious, so he paid his tab and left the Dappled Yak to stand on the street, staring down it to where he thought his Dome Two princess went. He wouldn’t hesitate next time.

     In the meantime, he had work to do.

     He had been seeing posters tacked up all over the business district for a gallery showing of fine art presented by the PanU Artists’ Collective. Normally, Malcolm wouldn’t have bothered with an art show but according to the posters, this one was located in a house in Dome Two and not at the university. The street address indicated the house was a property leased from the Second National Bank of Panschin. This was a chance to go inside one of the leased properties without anyone knowing who he was and getting a better feel for the needs and activities of Dome Two residents. If he showed up at the door as himself, the assistant manager of the bank, he’d be allowed in but it was doubtful anyone would be friendly and willing to talk.

     The show was tonight and he was fairly sure he knew which house. It was the surprisingly well-kept white house that had real plants growing in the tiny garden. In the meantime, he would dig out the lease from its tomb in the wall of filing cabinets, confirm his suspicion as to whether or not the house was one of his, and read it through to discover what was allowed and what was not.

     Reading fine print would be a good distraction and keep him from thinking about her, who she was, and why she was so unhappy. And that look on her face, the very last one he saw before she turned away and darted down the street without ever seeing him. Was it fear?

 


	10. local residents now regret everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Airick's arrival and the gallery show.

      Veronica stretched out her cramped fingers and wiggled them loose. She had spent a long morning prepping all the trays of nibbles for the PanU Artists’ Collective show. The thought that she might never have to do this again kept her going. ‘For Shelby’s sake,’ Veronica said over and over as a mantra to keep motivated washing greens, scrubbing roots, and frying blocks of yeast. ‘I’m doing this for Shelby and not that pack of snobs.’

     She needed to have everything finished as once the Collective showed up, she’d have to supervise the lazy jerks or they would get nothing done. Veronica slashed a daikon into coins, wishing they would turn into money so she didn’t have to put her sister through another gallery showing again. Or the fingers of some of those jerks, for treating her little sister as worthless.

     She caught the sound of the gate creaking and checked the clock. It was too early for Mrs. Grisson to come by with the eggs and despite what she had demanded the day before, Veronica didn’t expect anyone from the Collective to show up one minute earlier than Professor Vitebskin had ordered them to.

     The back door opened and Veronica watched with dismay from her position at the counter as Shelby stumbled inside. She had not seen her sister look so distraught since their mother’s death.

     “Shelby?” she asked. “What’s wrong? You’re home early.”

     Shelby turned to her sister. Her eyes were red and her normally glowing complexion was ashy.

     “I’m not that early,” Shelby replied in a flat voice. “The gallery show, remember? Vitebskin let us go early so I came straight home.”

     “Well, that was nice of him, I suppose.”

     “I’m going upstairs to wash up. I’ll be down to help finish setting up when the Collective arrives.”

     “Where are Florence and Lulu?”

     “I don’t know. I didn’t wait for them. Do we have to talk? I’m tired and I want to wash up and get ready for the show.”

     Veronica gave her sister a long, long look over, noting her dried tear tracks and uneven breathing. “Sure. Maybe you should lie down for a bit too. Take your time.”

     Shelby turned towards the door leading to the hall, then turned back to her sister. Her jaw trembled. She leaned up against the table, letting it support her weight, then slumped into the chair.

     “They found out today. Somebody, I don’t know who, figured out that I’m Simon Bradwell’s daughter and so are you. It was awful, Veronica. The things everyone said. Worst of all, some of the instructors? Dear old dad cheated them too. Students too. One girl,” Shelby gulped back a moan.

     “One girl told me that her family had been ruined.”

     Veronica frowned down at the knife in her hands and then very carefully laid it down on the countertop, keeping the honed edge well away from her and her sister.

     “Not that ruined if she could afford to go to PanU.”

     “Maybe she earned a scholarship, unlike me!” Shelby screamed, startling her sister. “Maybe someone in her family put themselves into bankruptcy to pay for that hellhole!” She burst into tears.

     Veronica watched her sister sob for a few moments, steeled herself against reopening her own heartache, and then sat down besides Shelby. She put her arms around her sister, stroked her hair, and made soothing noises, allowing Shelby the luxury of crying herself empty.

     She cried tears of her own too; angry tears at their father for destroying their lives and so many others because he couldn’t control his own appetites, heated tears at their mother who had given up when her daughters needed her, furious tears at Dean and his family who had abandoned her without a second thought, resentful tears for the vanished relatives who could have helped and refused, embarrassed tears for the casual cruelty of strangers, painful tears for being trapped in Panschin forever.

     But Veronica didn’t allow herself to cry for long. She had cried out most of those tears long ago, unlike Shelby whom other people were still trying to wound. Shelby’s tears were fresh, new, and raw. She was still learning how to grow an armor shell. She needed her big sister to hold her and be strong for her.

     ‘Who was there to hold me,’ Veronica thought as her sister wept out grief, fury, and anguish. Then Neza came up behind both girls, sat down, and did her best to hold them both.

     ‘Auntie Neza,’ Veronica thought.

     Auntie Neza had held her on many, many nights when she wept out salty lakes of tears. Veronica forced back her own rage and swallowed the last of her tears. Shelby needed reassurance more. Her sister’s hurt tears were new. Her own outraged grief was old and needed to be set aside. There was still a gallery show to put on and it would be just like some sneering member of the PanU Artists’ Collective to show up early, see the Bradwell’s anguish, and be even more spiteful towards her little sister for not having a thicker skin, for not being able to take a joke.

     Veronica let her anger fuel her, filling her with energy. She said, “Neza, can you help Shelby upstairs to wash up? Mrs. Grisson will be here soon with the eggs. We have a show to get ready for.”

     “That show,” Shelby moaned, and cried harder.

     “Shelby,” Veronica snapped out, “we will never do another show for those poncy sods again. This is the last one. Pull yourself together and every time one of those, those self-righteous oafs says something, remind yourself that we will never allow any of those snobs in this house again. I will scrub terraformers off toilets in Dome Six to keep them out.”

     She contemplated going outside her constricting, familiar, safe little world of Dome Two into the bigger world of the rest of Panschin, feeling her stomach tie itself up in knots. Shelby wasn’t the only member of the Bradwell family who had to deal with nasty gossip and meanspirited inuendo. Going to Dome Six meant the chance of running into former friends and cold relatives. Unpleasant memories swamped her, bringing back a few more tears. What would those people say, seeing her on her knees scrubbing moss off a wall like some low-caste housemaid? Bile rose and she choked it back.

     Veronica wrenched herself upright, then leaned over the table bracing herself on her hands, trying to control her breathing and ignoring the sting in her eyes. She shoved old memories away, focusing on the here and now and not the past.

     “But the money,” Shelby gasped.

     “This is the last show. We’ll figure something out,” Veronica said, her voice rough. Neza nodded, not trusting her own voice.

     The gate shrieked its warning.

     “That’ll be Mrs. Grisson with the eggs,” Veronica announced to the kitten calendar so she did not have to show her own anguished face to her sister or her aunt. “Shelby, you know she’ll ask questions so if you don’t want to answer them, go upstairs.”

     “Come on, Shelby,” Neza said gently. “Things will get better. You’ll see.”

     Veronica watched her sister and her aunt walk out of the room. Would things ever get better? She forced back the fresh wave of self-pity. They had a roof over their heads, food, even some friends and helpful neighbors, she reminded herself. Things _would_ get better. They had to. Time to get back to work, so she forced herself upright, returned to the counter, washed her face clean, and started peeling more daikon.

     Mrs. Grisson knocked at the back door and came on in, carrying a basket of eggs in triumph. Despite being asked, she adamantly refused to use the front door, insisting that a door so grand wasn’t for the likes of her. Veronica suspected that walking around the White Elephant gave Mrs. Grisson a chance to inspect her gardening efforts as it always took far longer for Mrs. Grisson to walk around the house than it did anyone else.

     “Hi, Veronica,” Mrs. Grisson said cheerfully. “Lovely day for a show.”

     “It’s always a lovely day in the spring inside a dome,” Veronica replied.

     “Well yes! Why without the dome, we’d be shivering in our boots if we hadn’t froze to death already. Got to appreciate what you’ve got, you know.”

     “Yes, that’s true. Thanks so much for the eggs. I know they’ll be enjoyed.”

     “Maybe someone’ll buy one of them dirt pictures if they eat an egg or two. Soften ‘em up, make their head go squashy and then their wallets’ll ease open.”

     Veronica laughed, her spirits revived by Mrs. Grisson’s optimism. There was a woman with nerves of steel who coped with everything life threw at her. Someday, she’d find out how Mrs. Grisson managed such a feat.

     “We keep hoping the same thing. Sure you don’t want to drop in and take a looksee this evening? All new paintings and plenty of nibbles and plonk to make them go down easier.”

     “Lordy no,” Mrs. Grisson said. She wrinkled her nose. “One round of what looks like a chicken’s leavings was enough. Why’s Shelby going to that silly school anyways? Her picture of my little granddaughter is just like she’s alive there on the paper. That school will make Shelby start drawing dirt, like those other students do and that’d be a real shame.”

     “Yes, yes it would.”

     Rather than leaving, Mrs. Grisson fussed over the eggs in the basket for a moment, a sure sign she had more to say. Veronica waited patiently, knowing it never took long for Mrs. Grisson to come to the point. She was a busy woman and didn’t believe in wasting time.

     “One of my boarders, he’s a maintenance man up to PanU, did you know that?”

     “Uh, no, no I did not.” Mrs. Grisson’s phrasing implied that her information was important enough to require an offer of repayment, even though she, as a good neighbor, might refuse the offer, reserving the right of repayment for later on when she needed it more.

     “Would you like a cup of tea? And a cookie?” Mrs. Grisson would be far more appreciative of the cookies Veronica had baked for the gallery show than the visitors would be. They would expect it as their due.

     “No thanks, Veronica. I know you got plenty to do to get ready for that show. My boarder, he told me that some sod found out about your and Shelby’s dad and spread it all over the school last night and this morning.”

     Veronica breathed out gustily and closed her eyes in pain, reopening them to see Mrs. Grisson watching her in sympathy.

     “Shelby found out today. She came home in tears.” That was, Veronica discovered, surprisingly hard to admit out loud.

     “I don’t doubt it. My boarder, he said they were saying awful things, as though our Shelby had anything to do with it. You tell Shelby that she’s got real talent and everyone in the family loves the pictures she’s drawn for us. We know how special she is and if she needs something, just ask.”

     Veronica sat down heavily. “People can be cruel. I’ll tell Shelby you were asking about her and how much everyone likes her drawings.”

     “You do that, Veronica. And if you need something, you can ask too,” Mrs. Grisson said. “My door is always open to good neighbors like you and your sister and your auntie.”

     “Thank you. That means a great deal to all of us.”

*****

     Veronica finished all the trays of nibbles, arranged as temptingly as she knew how. She arranged the eggs, now carefully deviled and cut into quarters to make them go further, front and center. She kept most of them in reserve to space their being devoured out over the event. Even if she disliked the cause of avant-garde art more than ever, she’d do the best job she could because she’d be damned rather than show one hint of pain to that pack of sods. She placed the trays in the cold room, then walked back to the kitchen to see what tasks she had left.

     The gate shrieked another warning. The clock insisted it was still too early for even the most eager-beaver members of the PanU Artists’ Collective to arrive. Veronica frowned at the kitten calendar picture watching her from its location on the wall. More bad news. No, that was being silly. She pasted on a smile and trotted through the house to the front door, yanking it open without bothering to peer through the pink glass inset or wait for a knock.

     There were four strange men standing on her doorstep.

     She stared at them, at a loss for words.

     They were a mixed group in appearance, despite all wearing new, standard issue coveralls. One man, the one bringing up the rear, was bigger than the thug who had come to the door days ago, asking about subletting the house. Then she realized they were all carrying luggage.

     “Uh, hello?” Veronica said.

     “Is this the White Elephant?” the leader of the little group asked. He looked around as if he was unsure of why he was standing there. His accent was odd.

     “Yes, yes, it is. Won’t you come in?”

     They were saved. Paying guests had arrived at last.

*****

     It had been an easy walk from the tiny business district to the residential area that the map indicated. As Airik’s group walked along, he studied the manor houses in miniature that lined the street. As each formerly grand mansion hove into view, he wondered again about the rightness of his action in escaping the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel.

     The buildings here, unlike Dome Six, were all in some stage of decay, most of them wearing the ubiquitous carpet of terraformers. In some cases, the buildings were furry with build-up, as thick as anything he had observed in Dome Four. Although most buildings had cleaned windows, there were a few where even the windows were caked over. Or so he assumed, as Airik didn’t believe that anyone would build a residence without windows. The windows of those buildings were indicated by bumps underneath the sweater of moss, outlining their frames.

     The business district, not surprisingly, had been kept up far better.

     Only a few of the houses they passed had been swept clean recently. The garden areas were astonishing; their low, encircling walls were a scientific display of every form of algae, moss, and lichens that grew on Mars. In many of the minute lots, the terraformers grew rampant, as they must have during the earliest days of settlement of the planet. In other gardens, there were attempts at actual gardening, ranging from straggling ornamentals to what he easily recognized as serious and dedicated food production.

     ‘How did they water these plants?’ Airik thought suddenly. He looked up at the dome looming overhead, blocking sun and wind and rain, trapping the residents of Panschin underneath. How did that immense bowl stay so clean? And on both sides? With all that sunshine, the dome should be wearing a meter-thick layer of terraformers. He would have to find out. How did Dome Six stay so clean?

     Airik ignored Upton’s mutterings, ascribing them to having to lug his typewriter in its case, rather than having a servant do so, along with carrying his valise. Elliot, he noticed, was staring all around him avidly when he wasn’t keeping an eye on their progress on his map. He would have to question Elliot later on about what he saw. His valet had a surprisingly good eye for detail, almost as though he were taking mental notes. He was proving useful as a second set of loyal, reliable eyes. Nunzio, bringing up the rear, said nothing but he too would make a report to Airik later on about his impressions.

     “Here sir,” Elliot announced. He stopped at an intersection, marked in its center with a planter spilling over with marigolds, their flame orange and sunny yellow shockingly vivid against the shaggy, muted greens and browns of the terraformers coating the planter. A sign post reared out of the planter, indicating the name of the street they were crossing. “Oleander Lane. We’ll turn left and the White Elephant should be about halfway down.”

     “Very good,” Airik said. He paused to stare, disconcerted, at the corner building. The once immense mansion directly to his left was so caked in terraformers that it resembled an overgrown stump. The heavy comforter of moss showed barely a ripple as it shrouded whatever architectural features the building once had. The terraformers in this property’s garden looked to be shin-deep. He thought of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. It was clean to the point of being sanitary. Nothing there was furry-plush other than carpets and towels.

     As he stood there, wondering what kind of mistake he was making, Airik caught the far away sound of a bird singing, over the low hum of people going about their business under a sound-trapping dome. It was the first bird he had heard since boarding the train in Purnell. A steppes sparrow based on the staccato rise and fall of its song, unless he missed his guess. He smiled inwardly. The bird was a good omen. Bird song was immensely preferable to a cacophony of party horns.

     “We’ll keep going,” he announced.

     Besides him, Upton coughed, and then coughed again, then blew his nose loudly.

     “Airik,” he said. “This place looks terrible.”

     “Yes, it does,” Airik admitted. “It’s also far quieter and the air feels fresher.”

     “Because we’re stranded in an oxygen factory,” Upton muttered to himself. “What are we breathing? My lungs must be coated with spores by now.”

     Despite how he had come to loathe the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel, everything Upton had seen in Dome Two was making it look better and better by comparison. Certainly, it had far more attractive scenery in the form of its female staff than anyone he had seen on the streets since their departure. The girl-watching there was superb. He’d also managed to carve out time to chat up some of the female guests, many of whom were happy to share notes on the wonders of Panschin. He had yet to get further than the lobby with any of them, but he had hopes. Regrettably, Airik would never accept his secretary’s preferences as a reason to put up with the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel so Dome Two it was. He groaned and shifted the typewriter and his valise, trying to ease the load and wondered if he could coax Nunzio into carrying another bag. No, Upton thought with dismay. The bodyguard already thought he was a lightweight. Why confirm his opinion?

     Airik led the way and halfway down the block was rewarded by the sight of a mansion in good repair, standing proudly among its furrier neighbors. Even without checking the street address, it had to be the White Elephant. This building gleamed white in the dome’s watery sunshine. Its completely useless shutters – shutters! In a dome! – shone a cool, clean gray against the white walls. They were trimmed out in pink and a darker gray to echo the roof tiles. Even the lacy wrought iron balustrade atop the roof tiles looked clean and sharp silhouetted against the dome. No terraformers coated and concealed this building. The low stone wall had its share of lichens, but it too, had been recently swept clean, revealing the rough granite chunks it had been constructed from.

     He opened the wrought-iron gate and winced at the shriek of unoiled metal. It was surprising when the building was so well maintained. Once inside the gate, the gravel path sparkled white in the watery sunshine. Airik stopped again, letting Upton catch up while he looked around with an evaluating eye. This tiny garden was filled with beds of plants edged all around with stones. Oddly, they were all sunken into the gravel, rather than having the soil heaped up as would be normal. The contents of the garden beds varied wildly; lettuces and other greens, radishes, tied up tomatoes that had yet to set fruit, and a host of other vegetables at varying stages of development. Other beds were filled to bursting with terraformers running rampant. That was strange but the vegetable beds were immaculately weeded so someone did know what they were doing.

     Seeing what was obviously a kitchen garden sent a pang of homesickness shooting through him for Shelleen, so far away. He shrugged it off. The needs of the demesne and what he could learn from the Conference came first.

     Airik walked up the gravel path towards the grand double front door. It was quiet enough that he could hear the gravel crunching beneath their feet, another sign that this place would be far more peaceful than Dome Six. He might be able to finally focus on the immense amount of material he had to learn. The Biennial Mining Conference, despite all the aggravations of useless investment schemes and unwanted dalliances, had provided him an avalanche of information to digest and plenty more to come.

     He stopped on the wide front threshold, a slab of very fine pink and gray granite speckled with black and polished to a sheen. The double doors each had an insert of pink glass, concealing the interior of the house, matching the transom and sidelights. The doorway was framed with the only ornamental plants he had seen inside the stone wall; two planters spilling over with marigolds, the same kind as were in the planter at the intersection. Oddly, there was no ornate door knocker such as he would have expected on such a fine house. There was a paint shadow on each door, showing where a pair of door knockers had once been installed. He reached out to rap his knuckles on the door when it was wrenched open by a young woman.

     She stared at him for a long moment, as though she almost recognized who she was seeing and was trying to place him.

     “Uh, hello?” she said.

     “Is this the White Elephant?” Airik asked. ‘Do not let her recognize me’ he thought, suddenly worried about more harassment over worthless business propositions.

     Veronica smiled at the stranger in immense relief. Guests, paying guests. Her ad in the Panschin Gazette had worked at last.

     “Yes, yes, it is. Won’t you come in please?” she said fervently.

     ‘Saved, we’re saved,’ she thought. At least for the next few months and after that, well, she’d manage. “I’m Veronica Bradwell. Welcome to the White Elephant.”

     She led the way through the spacious atrium to the table waiting between the wings of the double staircase spiraling upwards to the second floor and then the rooftop terrace. The guestbook lay in the drawer, unused for months.

     Veronica turned to the little group. They were looking all around them, as well they might. The contrast between the beautifully designed soaring space with its impressively complex crown molding, ornate double staircase spiraling up to the rooftop opening two floors above, polished floor, gilded balustrades, and the ugly paintings of mud and dirt was dissonance made visual.

     “I’ll need your names please,” she said, opening the guestbook to a new, blank page. That way, the new guests wouldn’t see how long it had been since she had hosted anyone and wonder what was wrong with the White Elephant.

     “I am Airik Jones,” the leader of the group said. “My cousins Upton, Elliot, and Nunzio.”

     Veronica stopped writing. Cousins? Really? He expected her to believe that? Airik and Upton bore a faint resemblance in their noses and the tinge of red in their hair, but Elliot and Nunzio didn’t look like anyone there but themselves. Their coveralls were so new they were still starchy. Then she thought of the lease and the desperately needed money.

     “Of course,” she chirped. “Are you in town for the Biennial Mining Conference?”

     Airik hesitated, then said, “yes, we are.”

     Veronica smiled eagerly at him. She could help him, ensuring he was happy with his choice of staying at the White Elephant.

     ‘She knows,’ Airik thought. ‘This won’t work. She wants an affair, she wants money, she wants something. I’ll be stuck with that damned hotel. I’ll never get anything done and this entire trip to Panschin will have been wasted.’

     “I believe most of the conference events are taking place in Dome Six. There are several transtube stations within walking distance. I’ll mark out the best ones for you,” Veronica said. “Officially, the transtube station in the business district is closer, but everyone here uses the one down the block when they have to go to Dome Six.”

     “Thank you, Miss Bradwell.” Airik couldn’t quite conceal his relief.

     She hemmed for a moment, worrying Airik again.

     “Ah, will you be wanting separate rooms?”

     “Yes. And I will need space to spread out paperwork.”

     “I can do that. Will you be staying long?”

     “Until the end of the conference, Miss Bradwell.”

     Veronica thought her heart would stop. Almost two weeks of paying guests! And four separate rooms!

     “That will be,” she named her price, “for each of you per night. In cash, please and in advance.” ‘Please, please, please, let him agree and pay,’ she fretted.

     Airik added up the numbers mentally. This Miss Bradwell’s rates for their entire stay wouldn’t cover the cost of a single night for him alone at the Twelve Happiness.

     “This does include breakfast?” he asked suspiciously.

     “Yes, that’s why we’re called a bed and breakfast,” Veronica shot back and wanted to bite her tongue off. She smiled at him as apologetically as she could manage.

     ‘She doesn’t have any idea who I am,’ Airik realized. ‘If she did, she would have fawned all over me and then asked for ten times as much money.’

     “This is acceptable, Miss Bradwell.”

     “Veronica! Do we have guests?” a voice called out from overhead.

     “Auntie Neza, yes we do. Mr. Jones? My aunt Neza Molony.”

     Airik took a good look at the old woman limping down the stairs, shiny pink cane in hand. There was no sign of recognition on her curious face as she looked him and his group over carefully.

     “Is there anything else I should know, Miss Bradwell?”

     The gate shrieked its warning, footsteps came crunching up the gravel at a good clip, and the front door was flung open. Two young women came trotting in, both out of breath.

     “Veronica, Shelby didn’t wait for us. Do you know where she is?” Florence panted out.

     Lulu took a moment to stare at the strange men standing next to Veronica by the hall table and the open guest book at Veronica’s hand. “We got guests?”

     “Yes, we do. Shelby came home already. She’s upstairs. Go check on her, while I deal with our guests,” Veronica said. She tried to beam a message to Florence and Lulu to not ask any more questions and to her great relief, they each gave the Jones men searching looks and then went around them to climb the stairs and disappear upstairs. Auntie Neza turned and slowly made her way back upstairs as well.

     “Are these other guests, Miss Bradwell?” Airik asked.

     “No, they’re my sister and my, uh, cousins,” she answered.

     He seemed to be the only member of the Jones party who was able to speak. How strange that was, Veronica thought, although he was not the only one with eyeballs. That Upton cousin made no bones about enjoying the view of Florence and Lulu trotting up the stairs. Fortunately, he didn’t speak. The other two men, if they paid attention, were far more discreet about their roving eyes.

     Airik had also watched Florence and Lulu, both attractive young women, trot up the stairs along with the old woman to meet another presumably attractive young woman, although he did not leer. His expression never changed. And here was Miss Bradwell, also very attractive, standing in front of him with only a table to separate them. He thought of the concierge at the Twelve Happiness and his salacious ‘special services’ with an inward shudder. Better to get it over with and discover exactly what kind of a hotel he was standing in.

     “I beg your pardon for asking. Do you make introductions, Miss Bradwell? Intimate ones?” he made himself ask. That was the most respectable way of phrasing the request he could think of on the spur of the moment.

     Veronica stared at him for a long, deeply uncomfortable minute while she tried to figure out what he was asking. Then she got it.

     “Certainly _not_!” she snapped, rearing back in outrage. “We are a respectable household. If you insist on that sort of, of, uh, accommodation, you will have to go elsewhere. Like Dome Six.”

     ‘Damn,’ she thought. ‘What else is he going to want? Better get it over with.’ She plunged in with “I also do not provide sightseeing tours, introductions to important people or local celebrities, arrange for shopping expeditions, provide transportation or do anything else that a hotel does.” She stared at him, waiting tensely to see what he would say.

     “I see. If I may, what do you provide, Miss Bradwell?” Airik asked doggedly.

     “A clean room for each of you, privacy, and breakfast. If you want other meals, you have to arrange for them in advance and I’ll have to charge you for them.”

     Airik couldn’t figure out why he kept questioning Miss Bradwell, remaining in her presence. He should have checked in by now and been in his room reading briefing papers. “You do want to rent rooms to us, though. Is that correct?”

     “Yes, yes, of course. But Mr. Jones, I want you to be comfortable and happy with us and that means you have to understand what I will and won’t do,” Veronica replied.

     “Very good then, Miss Bradwell,” Airik replied. He liked clear rules and these seemed clear enough, although the word ‘happy’ had come to have unpleasant connotations of organized, mandatory cheerfulness with a psychotic edge. “We will have privacy?”

     “Yes. Oh, lordy. I forgot,” Veronica said and bit her lip.

     Airik arched an eyebrow at her.

     She gritted her teeth, hoping he wouldn’t decide to leave for greener pastures someplace else when she told him what was in store for the evening.

     “The White Elephant is hosting a gallery showing starting tonight for the Panschin University Artists’ Collective. There will be some noise but as long as your group stays upstairs, you won’t be bothered.”

     Mr. Jones looked puzzled. “An artists’ collective?”

     “Yes,” Veronica said. She waved her hand around at the paintings adorning the space. “They created these paintings. My sister is a member and we help them out by hosting showings. All of these paintings are for sale. Our opening night, that’s tonight, will have lots of people, food, conversation, and maybe,” – she rolled her eyes in disdain – “someone will buy a painting. There’s more in the ballroom and a few more are arriving in the next two hours.” She inclined her head towards the blank space right behind her. The movement shifted her ponytail of glossy, dark hair draped across her shoulder and against her neck.

     Airik looked around again at the paintings adorning the creamy white walls, taking his time. They did not improve with a more careful viewing. Nor did the sunlight streaming in from above highlight any of their attractive attributes as it did with Miss Bradwell’s hair.

     He noted his thought with some surprise and wrenched his attention back to the topic at hand. “Are they all like this?”

     “I’m afraid so,” Veronica replied. “It’s, so I am told, avant-garde art that is beyond the understanding of mere bourgeois mortals like me.” She smiled suddenly at him and chuckled.

     Airik felt his heart seize at the sound of her sharing what he thought might be a small joke with him. He firmly repressed the curious, unfamiliar sensation, along with his sudden awareness of her glossy, dark head of hair.

     “Anyways,” Veronica went on, “I’ll try and keep the noise of the last-minute preparations down. Oh! I know I don’t provide meals other than breakfast, but we will be serving extensive nibbles this evening if you and your,” she hesitated and glanced at each of them in turn, “cousins wish to come downstairs. Otherwise, I provide a list of local restaurants who would be thrilled to have your business.”

     Airik’s expression did not change, while Upton looked interested. The other two men’s expressions remained blank. ‘Servants,’ Veronica thought suddenly, remembering where she had seen that lack of facial mobility before.

     “Very thoughtful of you, Miss Bradwell,” he said.

     “However,” Veronica said, “if you do come down, please do not show any interest in any of the paintings unless you actually want to buy one. These artists, you can’t imagine what they’re like, will pester you to no end if they think you have any money.”

     Airik allowed himself a cool smile, thinking of other money-grubbers who had pestered him. Artists couldn’t possibly compete in that avaricious league. “That won’t be a problem.”

     “As long as you don’t encourage them, they’ll leave you alone,” she added, wanting to be perfectly clear about the peril her guests were venturing into.

     “These artists understand the meaning of ‘no’?” Airik asked, eyebrows slightly raised. In his experience, that didn’t always happen.

     Veronica waved her hand at the paintings again and made a face. “They’re used to rejection. I’m sure you can see why.” She noticed that Mr. Jones had cool, very intelligent hazel eyes.

     “Very good.” Airik then paid the fee she had asked for, in cash, and without another quibble. Veronica wanted to scream and dance as he counted out the heavy silver coins, each adorned with proud Ares crushing a representation of Olde Earthe beneath his armor shod feet.

     “May I ask where you’re from, Mr. Jones?” she asked as she scooped the coins up and stuffed them into her coverall’s pockets. She congratulated herself for not giggling manically with each coin she picked up, earmarking them as she went for current and future needs.

     Airik hesitated. “Barsoom.”

     Veronica caught his hesitation and thought ‘sure you are, wearing brand-spanking-new coveralls like I see on the streets every day but what do I care?’ Aloud she said smoothly, “How exciting. All the way from Barsoom for the mining conference. I’ve never been there. Panschin will be very different for you, I’m sure. Shall we go upstairs and get you settled?”

     She walked around the table and picked up Airik’s bags, sitting there on the floor where he had set them down, next to the other luggage.

     He stared at her for a moment, unmoving, so she waited for him to get the hint.

     “Do you have no staff, Miss Bradwell?”

     ‘Oh lordy,’ Veronica thought in dismay. ‘What is it now?’

     “No, I do not,” she said. “Me, my sister, my aunt, and my cousins, as I said. Let’s get you upstairs before the Collective shows up.”

     “Put my bags down, Miss Bradwell, and step away. Now.”

     ‘Please, please, please, don’t back out when I’ve finally got some money,’ Veronica prayed, but she did as he asked.

     To her surprise, Airik stepped forward and picked up his valises.

     “You may proceed, Miss Bradwell,” he said.

     Veronica gave him a quizzical look. Not one of her other, very few guests had ever carried their own luggage. She shrugged mentally and smiled at him. Then, even more surprising, Mr. Jones caught his cousin Upton’s eyes, flicked his own at the valise and large case at his cousin’s feet, and Upton picked up his own luggage, as did the other two cousins who didn’t look at all like relatives. She noticed that they did not have to be reminded to carry their own luggage. Definitely servants.

     “Thank you, Mr. Jones. Right this way.”

     As Airik followed Veronica up the stairs, he turned the thought over and over that Miss Bradwell had no staff to assist her. He wouldn’t be bothered. He would be left in peace. He could work. He could feel himself relax with each step up the properly designed, winding staircase to the second floor. He had made the correct decision.

****

     Upstairs, Veronica turned to the right side of the landing, leading her new guests down the normally empty wing. She was deeply grateful that they had cleaned the guest wing from top to bottom in anticipation of the Biennial Mining Conference. Every room sparkled and there wasn’t a terraformer to be seen. She hoped that Neza or someone, knowing that they actually had guests, had thought to open all the windows in the guest rooms and pull back the drapes, letting the light inside to show off how spotless the rooms were.

     Airik paused as soon as he entered the hallway as the ceiling caught his attention. It was studded at regular intervals by what looked like shiny, giant faceted stones, as though he was looking at the bottom of diamonds in their settings. There were four in all. They glowed, spilling light into the otherwise unlit hallway. A window at the far end provided the other illumination as did the light coming from the open ceiling from the atrium. He had studied that too, having never, before coming to Panschin, seen buildings with big holes left open to the sky deliberately cut into their roofs. In his experience, skylights required glass and plenty of flashing to keep out the weather.

     “What are these objects in the ceiling, Miss Bradwell?” he asked.

     “Deck prisms,” she replied. Most houses in Dome Two have them and I suppose plenty of other places in Panschin do too.”

     She pointed towards a coordinating set of equally shiny flat disks set in the floor of the hallway, one disk in front of each pair of doors. They were the size of dinner plates, indicating the tops of their ceiling counterparts directly overhead were the same size. Each door, Airik noted, was topped with an open transom, probably to catch and distribute the light.

     Veronica said “as you can see, we’ve also got deck prisms in the floor and there are some on the ground floor for sublevel number one. They let sunlight fall through from the dome into the house.”

     Airik stepped up to the floor disk and peered down. He couldn’t see through it. He looked up to its partner in the ceiling overhead. The faceting kept him from seeing through it to the outside. This was probably, he deduced, the reason why he couldn’t see down through the floor prisms to the level below. The faceting refracted and broke the light, increasing the sparkle while maintaining privacy. Fascinating. He would have to see about installing some of these prisms in the manor house in Shelleen.

     “I can step on these, Miss Bradwell?”

     “You sure can, Mr. Jones.”

     He studied the prisms again, making the rest of his party wait patiently, then made his best guess after running down the possibilities. What a wonderful concept for maximizing free sunlight. “Are they glass?”

     “They are, Mr. Jones.”

     “Why are they called deck prisms? I understand the prism part but not the deck.”

     Veronica puzzled over his question. She finally said “You know, I have no idea. Everybody calls them that.”

     ‘How nice,’ she thought. ‘He waited for me to answer and he’s not being nasty because I don’t know why they’re called deck prisms.’ She smiled at him again. Airik Jones was surprisingly easy to smile at. The light streaming from the prism over his head caught the reddish tint in his hair, making it catch fire.

     Airik stepped on the disk and then stepped off it, testing how it felt underfoot. ‘Honesty is so refreshing,’ he thought. ‘She didn’t lie or make excuses. She didn’t know and she said so.’

     Behind them both, Upton watched the interchange and wanted to groan. He was tired, his nose was running again, his arms hurt from the weight of the typewriter in its case, and if Airik thought this was the way to make conversation with a pretty young woman, he was mistaken.

     The gate shrieked its warning.

     “Oh, dear,” Veronica said. “That must be the Collective with the last of the mud paintings. Uh, this door” – she indicated the first door on the left – “is the shared loo. We have our own so you’ll have some privacy. The door opposite is for storage. After that, the next six doors are guest rooms.”

     She trotted down the hallway to the second door on the left, opening it for Airik to follow.

     He peered inside, seeing a quiet, simple room. The bamboo floors shone in the cool light coming in from the open windows. Their heavy, deep pink brocade drapes had been fully pulled back. The walls were pale cream. The furniture consisted of a large bed, dresser, a small table, a chair, a mirror, and, surprisingly after the dreadful paintings he had seen downstairs, a fairly good rendering of a vase of flowers. A brightly colored braided rug lay next to the bed.

     “Are all the rooms like this, Miss Bradwell?”

     “Yes, they are.” Veronica was distracted by the sound of the front door opening and people coming in and talking. It sounded like Lulu had taken charge. Good. She wouldn’t take any grief from the Collective. An older student had once, during a previous show, goosed Lulu on her rear end. She had whipped around and slapped him across his face as hard as she could and screamed at him to keep his damned paws to himself. The onlookers were appalled and delighted at the free show. The student was mortified at being caught out so publicly, and according to Shelby, spent the rest of the term living it down. Lulu remained unembarrassed and uncowed and that student never again got fresh while at the White Elephant. Even better, the other more forward members of the Artists’ Collective also got the message. Their eyes might still roam but since their hands did not, Veronica counted it as a win for her makeshift little family.

     Lulu also didn’t tolerate laziness.

     Veronica decided to relax about the situation now unfolding in the first floor of the atrium. She could take the time with her paying guests upstairs, knowing downstairs was in good hands.

     “The rooms are all the same so you can choose as you like,” she said.

     Airik turned around slowly, taking in the space, then walked to the open window to look out. Down below, he saw several young men wrestling large, flat, wrapped rectangles through the double doors.

     “More paintings, Miss Bradwell?”

     Veronica came to the window to stand next to him and peered out. “Yep, sure are. These paintings are from Professor Vitebskin’s special students. They’ve graduated, but they’re working on careers in the fine arts so they still show with the Collective.”

     “I see,” Airik said, wondering how you could have a career painting pictures that looked like a close-up of a badly managed excavation site. He didn’t want to move away from the window, as it was very pleasant standing so close to Miss Bradwell. She smelled faintly of violets, also very pleasant.

     He pushed that thought away.

     “Does each room have a table similar to this one?”

     “Yes, they do.”

     “I may need to move them around to give me enough space to spread out my reports.”

     A crash resounded from downstairs.

     “Damn them,” Veronica swore. She flushed, wanting to bite her tongue again. “Forgive me, please. Move the tables around as you need to, Mr. Jones. I’ll bring up the restaurant list so you and your cousins can get dinner later on.” She nervously shifted her weight, caught between helping paying guests and keeping an eye on the Collective.

     Airik noted her distress. “Go take care of downstairs, Miss Bradwell.”

     She smiled at him again, wondering why it was so easy to smile at this stranger. She said, “remember, if you go downstairs to see the show, you don’t have to buy anything.”

     They heard another, smaller crash followed by a woman swearing. Her invective was loud, inventive, detailed, colorful, and she did not once repeat herself.

     “Lordy,” Veronica said. “I’d better rescue Lulu before she strangles some idiot student.”

     She ran out the door, making sure to close it behind her, her quick footsteps echoing on in the hall.

     “Well, this place is sure different from the Twelve Happiness,” Upton said, taking a good look around. Where was the plush carpet that his feet could sink into up to his ankles? The expensive art? The mirrors? The exquisite objects carefully arranged on each flat surface? The immense floral arrangements scenting the air? The complimentary champagne, array of pastries, and fruit tray?

     Airik gave him a long, cool gaze that reminded Upton, clearer than any words could, who was the daimyo and who was not.

     “Yes, quieter and far less intrusive in every way. Nunzio, I may need you to move the tables from room to room so I have space to spread out reports. Elliot, take care of the baggage and as soon as Miss Bradwell sends up the list of local food places, I want you to go out and place an order. Annotate the map as you need to. Upton, get those reports unpacked. I’ll start with the Jandinaire specifications.”

     He was rewarded with a chorus of ‘yes, sir’.

     “Sir?” Nunzio said.

     “Yes?”

     “When everyone has gone downstairs for this artist thing, I need to take a good look around the White Elephant. See what I can see.”

     Airik gave his bodyguard a cool nod of approval.

     “Report back with your findings.”

     “Yes, sir.”

*****

     Veronica marched down the stairs toward the sounds of Lulu telling someone off, with a backdrop of chatter, unwrapping noises, and thuds. She hoped that Shelby had gotten herself together enough to participate in setting up the last few paintings. If Shelby didn’t show up, it would be talked about. If Shelby arrived looking hurt and wounded, it would be talked about more. The best-case scenario was for Shelby to work hard while helping set up the last few paintings while keeping her head high. Then, despite any gossip, no one could find fault with her behavior.

     Her own behavior now, that was a different story. It was going to be darned hard to keep control of herself, while wanting to throw the entire pack of the Collective and all their ugly canvases out onto the street. Veronica paused halfway down the stairs to breathe slowly, her fingers clenched around the bannister. She would earn half the money taken from tickets and, despite having Mr. Jones’ cash safely tucked into her pockets, that wasn’t good coin she could throw away. She would never allow the Bradwell home to be used again to host a gallery showing but who knew when the next guest would show up?

     That led to thoughts of Mr. Jones. He had been surprisingly easy to talk to since it seemed like he genuinely wanted information. He had looked very uncomfortable asking about ‘intimate introductions’; almost as though he was forcing himself to ask such a question because he felt he had to for some strange reason. That Upton cousin, now he would have leered and said something racy, no doubt on that score, Veronica felt. Not Mr. Jones. He was a gentleman.

     She stopped again. Why did she feel comfortable around Mr. Jones?

     Veronica bit her lip again, thinking hard. Comfortable was not an emotion to trust. She had felt comfortable around Dean Kangjuon and look how that had ended. No, emotions of any kind weren’t to be trusted, especially with a man she didn’t know at all. Fortunately, once the Biennial Mining Conference was over, Mr. Jones would leave, along with his mysterious cousins who so obviously weren’t cousins. And why would someone who could afford servants stay at the White Elephant?


	11. professor yells at useless people

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finishing setting up the art show at the White Elephant.

     Airik plunged into the Jandinaire specifications report, able, at last, to concentrate. As he had expected, they had glossed over certain maintenance issues he already knew about while highlighting only the successes of their patented processes. The report was very carefully written so that anyone without prior experience would assume that their safety equipment would perform flawlessly, be easy to maintain, and thus worth the high cost. He, however, knew better. He had read their reports in the past along with analyses supplied by their competitors.

     “Upton?”

     His secretary sprang to attention. “Yes, sir?”

     “Take notes. The Jandinaire equipment has the following flaws so Shelleen requires the subsequent improvements and price reductions if they expect a deal,” Airik said and reiterated them in detail.

     As he took dictation, Upton felt himself relaxing. The daimyo was back on track at last. It might have been worth it to hide in this dump in Dome Two.

     They spent the next few hours working their way through the most important proposals. During that period, Elliot supplied sandwiches from a restaurant that Miss Bradwell recommended called the Dappled Yak. Airik appreciated that they were simple, well-made, and quite good. Somehow, the Dappled Yak managed to avoid the metallic pong he kept noticing in the greens he had eaten at the Twelve Happiness.

     His only other interruption came about an hour after Miss Bradwell left Airik to work in peace. Nunzio decided it was time to take a stroll through the White Elephant, looking for possible security issues. On his return, he told Airik of his findings.

     “Sir? As Miss Bradwell said, there’s five people living here. One old lady plus the four young ladies. The old lady gets a room to herself in the other wing, the other ladies share, two to a room. None of them look to be those kind of women, like what the hotel kept offering. If they are, they don’t bring their work home. The other three bedrooms in the other wing are empty.”

     “Empty of people?” Airik asked. Had Miss Bradwell lied about other staff or servants? It was very odd that a building of this size would have only five people living in it and all of them female. There were twelve bedrooms alone and that didn’t include servants’ quarters wherever those were hidden and then there was that ballroom. What was going on? And why did he care?

     “Barebones empty, sir,” Nunzio replied. “Those rooms didn’t have so much as a broken chair in them. Swept clean regularly from the look of them, but nobody lives there. Upstairs there’s a rooftop terrace that covers the whole house. It’s mostly empty too. Got a few chairs and a table at one end and a small painting setup at the other. Nice view of the area from up top if you don’t mind knowing there’s all that glassteel overhead.”

     “And downstairs? Miss Bradwell implied there were belowground levels to the house.”

     Airik knew, from his preparations for the trip to Panschin, that much of the city lay beneath the domes in repurposed mining tunnels. The vast majority of the working-class population lived in the tunnels, many of those miners and their families rarely coming aboveground into the domes. Even fewer ever went outside the domes.

     “Haven’t checked yet, sir. Downstairs aboveground is a nuthouse. All these people getting in each other’s ways trying to hang more ugly pictures. Miss Bradwell’s riding herd on them and not getting any place.”

     “I see,” Airik said. He paused. “Does she require assistance?”

     Upton stared at his boss’s profile and exchanged surprised shrugs with Elliot, who looked equally baffled. Nunzio had better control but he was also standing in front of Airik.

     He said, carefully, “I don’t believe so, sir. Main trouble, from what I could see from the landing, was that she wanted them to work and they won’t. So her and her sister and those two cousins are doing most of the job unpacking and rearranging. The others down there, all from the Collective I guess, are mostly standing around when they’re not getting in the way. She said something about some professor showing up and he wouldn’t be pleased.”

     Airik spent some minutes evaluating what Nunzio said about the events downstairs and his reaction, oblivious to his baffled, waiting staff. Why did he want to assist Miss Bradwell? She had rented him a set of rooms but once he’d paid her fee, he had no obligations to her and she had been quite clear about her own obligations to him. Her expectations from him were those of any paying guest: paying promptly, behaving like a gentleman, and not making too much of a mess. He had a mountain of work waiting for him and he did not need to add to it by taking on Miss Bradwell’s problems.

     Moreover, and more importantly, he was safely anonymous as long as he remained within those rooms. Going downstairs meant being surrounded by the members of the Collective and it was possible one of those students might recognize him. Certainly, this professor, whoever he was, would grasp the importance of the daimyo of Shelleen. Since his arrival, Airik had seen his sketched image in every newspaper in Panschin along with grossly exaggerated stories of Shelleen’s wealth. It was better to remain where he was, focused on the business at hand.

     Still, it bothered him that Miss Bradwell might need some help and it bothered him more that he cared. He finally shrugged off those disquieting emotions and returned to the proposal from Maerski laying before him on the table. They wanted to participate in the initial excavation of the Red Mercury Lode, exchanging their expertise for future favors to be determined by them at a later date. They must think he was an ignorant yokel, Airik decided, and began dictating a letter refusing their proposition. Instead, he proposed an alliance that would benefit Shelleen while still throwing some money, albeit a much smaller amount than Maerski expected, their way.

     As he spoke and Upton wrote, Airik caught himself being distracted by sounds from downstairs. Perhaps later, he resolved, he would visit the show and see if the paintings had miraculously improved or if the artists could explain their aesthetic choices to his satisfaction. If he stayed in the background, wearing standard issue coveralls, he could remain unnoticed as he used to be, before he became the daimyo of Shelleen. Who, after all, would expect to meet such a person here? Besides, most of those drawings of him in the newspapers had not been accurate, giving him another potential layer of protection. His decision made, he was able to concentrate fully on the report at hand.

*****

     Veronica did not race downstairs to stop Lulu from throttling some student who probably deserved it. Instead, she checked on Shelby’s whereabouts. She expected to find her little sister sobbing or hiding, attended by auntie Neza wielding sympathetic cups of tea. To her surprise, her sister was not burying herself in their shared room. It was empty, as was Neza’s room and Lulu and Florence’s shared bedroom. She thought for a moment. Could Shelby be hiding from the Collective, those snobby sods, up on the rooftop terrace? There was the risk that some student from PanU would go up there to gape at the skyline within the dome so probably not. There were also the subbasement levels, but accessing them meant going down the grand central staircase where Shelby was sure to be spotted by someone from the Collective and questioned. But if Shelby did venture into the subbasement catacombs, she’d never be found until she wanted to be.

     Veronica chewed on her lip, thinking. Would Shelby be upset enough to hide down there, in those spooky, echoing, poorly lit rooms? She rarely went belowground without a compelling reason and when she did, she hated going past the area lit by the rooftop opening. She always wanted a rushlight to light her way and once downstairs, tried to stay near the light-shafts. Shelby didn’t even like going into the metro stations to use the transtubes. Which of those things would be the lesser of two evils? The subbasement levels or the PanU Artist’s Collective?

     From downstairs, Lulu yelled at a student, her creative swearing echoing up the atrium. Veronica groaned. Maybe Shelby was already there in the ballroom, helping out. It could happen. She headed downstairs and to the great relief of the Collective she took over, sending Lulu off to set up tables in the dining room.

     Unfortunately, she quickly realized that Lulu had gotten more work out of them than she would. The members of the Collective had decided that _her_ wishes could be ignored. It had to be because the students were afraid of Lulu since she, unlike Veronica, radiated menace. Lulu didn’t have anything to lose by roughing up an upper-caste student as she could disappear down into the tunnels where she’d never be found and they could tell. As least, that’s how it seemed to Veronica after a very frustrating half-hour. _She_ had to resort to taking Professor Vitebskin’s name in vain and, to her horror, wishing impatiently he would appear and take charge.

     She’d never had so much trouble getting members of the Collective to follow orders before. What had changed since yesterday? And where was Shelby?

     Veronica took a quick pass through the ballroom, hoping to find her sister, and there she was, grimly unpacking another painting and ignoring everyone gossiping around her. She trotted over to her sister, glaring at lazy students that she passed. One of them was actually leaning up against an easel and putting it in danger of falling over.

     “Shelby,” Veronica whispered, when she reached her sister. “You okay?”

     “Yes,” her sister muttered. “This is the last time, right? For ever and ever?”

     “Yep,” Veronica said, looking coldly around them at the beautiful, high-ceilinged room filled with mud smeared canvases. “Never again. Any ideas why the Collective is being more useless than usual?”

     Shelby straightened up her back with a groan, picked up the painting from its display easel and turned it upside down, frowned at it, then rotated it again another quarter-turn. It did not look better to Veronica but Shelby seemed happier with its new orientation. Only then was she willing to speak to her older sister.

     “Every single person here knows the story about dear old dad. As a result, they’ve decided they don’t have to work for a pile of tailings like us. We should work but they don’t have to. We’re not good enough to tell any of them what to do,” she said bitterly.

     Veronica clenched her fists as fury shot through her. She forced out, “Shelby, if I didn’t need the money from this show, I’d throw those damned sods out right now. I’m so sorry to put you through this.”

     “Don’t be,” her sister replied. “You have to do this, I have to do this, and afterwards, well, we don’t have to do this anymore.”

     The sisters’ eyes met and, for once, they were in perfect accord.

     “I am, for the very first time, looking forward to Vitebskin’s arrival,” Veronica said. “He’ll have a fit when he sees these clods standing around.”

     Shelby grinned at her sister, her face lighting up with angry joy. “He will be furious. I can’t wait.”

     Veronica and Shelby didn’t have to wait long. The gate shrieked its warning, something they noticed but no one else seemed to do. Veronica smirked at the sound. She decided, on the spot, not to answer the door since Neza had told her Professor Vitebskin could be expected to waltz right in. Why alert the Collective that their master had arrived and forestall the explosion of invective they so richly deserved?

     And explode he did. He opened the door himself without bothering to knock, ensuring no one was alerted. He took one look around at the lack of preparation in the atrium and ripped into the Collective members standing idly around. Veronica had moved to a position in the hallway and watched with enjoyment as Professor Vitebskin lambasted those students who had been the most disparaging to her earlier. He didn’t know or care about their behavior toward the Bradwells, he was exceedingly unlikely to care how the Bradwells felt about it, but Professor Vitebskin could be counted on to care very much about the image he presented to the art world of Panschin. The Collective had let him down and nothing could matter more than that.

     He then stormed, fuming and furious, into the ballroom and screamed in outrage at seeing the untidy heap of still-cocooned paintings. These newly arrived paintings were from his most favored protégés, former students who were talented enough that their art would indeed grace the mansions and museums of Panschin and, maybe, possibly, travel further still, into the lofty and rarified reaches of Barsoom itself, thus burnishing his own image still more.

     His language was vivid enough to impress Lulu. She wandered in from the dining room to watch the show. Veronica had never heard such a diatribe before. She, unlike Lulu, did not take notes. _She_ spent that blue five minutes praying her paying guests upstairs wouldn’t overhear the good professor and wonder what kind of bed and breakfast they were staying in. Fortunately, the professor was in the ballroom and the draperies, along with the canvases, muffled much of the sound keeping it from the atrium and upstairs. And upstairs the doors were, she hoped, closed against the flood.

*****

     Professor Vitebskin finally wound down and he watched in stony, furious silence as his former favorite students, hand-picked by himself, wilted into slimy heaps of algae fresh from the tanks. He did not feel one particle of compassion for any of them. They were useless wastes of space and it was clear that this crop of students was indeed wasting his time at Panschin University while wasting their parents’ money. Most infuriating of all, his humiliation was observed by that talentless hack, Shelby Bradwell, and her not properly respectful sister, Veronica.

     To top off his afternoon, Neza then showed up from out of some hole or other, striking her gaudy pink cane onto the floor of the ballroom with every step. She did not bother with polite greetings.

     “What the hellation is wrong with you!” she screamed at him. “We open our home to the Collective, invite strangers onto our property, and then we’re expected to do all the work? My nieces have been slaving on this show. Yesterday was bad enough, but today! I don’t know where to start. Do you know that one of your precious students pushed me into a wall? Because I couldn’t get out of his way fast enough! And then, was he in a hurry to get to work? No,” – Neza grabbed Professor Vitebskin’s coverall and tried to yank him closer to her livid face – “he sat down on one of _your_ precious new paintings. He could have crushed it and he could have broken my leg.”

     She stopped ranting and let go of Professor Vitebskin. Veronica, who had not known this had happened, ran up to them.

     “ _What_? Lordy, are you all right? Who was it? I will shove whoever it was face-first through one of these damn paintings,” Veronica said to her aunt. Then she whipped around to Professor Vitebskin.

     “This is how we’re to be treated? Is it?” she snarled at him.

     He swiftly stepped back out of range of Veronica’s much stronger hands, straightened his coverall collar and smoothed the front where Neza’s hands had worked wrinkles into the crisply ironed cloth. His mind raced. Veronica could throw them out of the White Elephant and cancel the show. He couldn’t locate another venue on zero notice, even the substandard one on the university’s grounds. And then he’d have to move all those paintings. What would potential patrons say about his competence and abilities to manage people?

     “It is not, Miss Bradwell,” he replied icily. “I am appalled at the Collective’s behavior. I will start by punishing the miscreant. Who was it?”

     Neza pointed the student out, using her cane to be sure everyone saw at whom she was aiming. He was the same lout who had informed Veronica the day before that he was too refined for manual labor.

     Veronica said, “Oh that one! No surprise there. He was a problem for me yesterday.” She smirked at the Professor as she threw fuel onto the fire. “He doesn’t think he needs to do any work at all for the good of the Collective. He told me so himself.”

     Professor Vitebskin grew even angrier. He knew this particular joker well, having long suspected that _he_ had been the one who smuggled the kitten calendar into the studio, thus defacing that sacred temple with venal, commercial hackwork. This lazy mazhor was marginally talented, believing his connections could overcome his lack of artistic ability. He was wrong on that score and now he was jeopardizing a show that Professor Vitebskin was counting on to keep his name in front of everyone in the Panschin art establishment.

     He grabbed his soon-to-be-former student by the front of his coverall, although with a much firmer grip than Neza had used, and started his lecture, his angry face close enough to bite off the student’s nose.

     If Veronica had thought Professor Vitebskin had turned the air bright blue before, she marveled at the new, more intense shade he evoked.

     Lulu whispered to her, “wow. I have never heard language like that before, _anywhere,_ even in the tunnel bars under Dome Four. Just wow. Where did he learn those words, a fancy professor like him?”

     Neza said, “that wretch didn’t hurt me, Veronica. And, I have to say, I feel much better now, watching him get called on for his behavior. My goodness. Such language. I would faint if that arrogant sod didn’t deserve every word.”

     Shelby said, “oh. That jerk. Reyansh Philpott. He’s nasty to everyone. I hope Vitebskin throws him out of the house.”

     Veronica asked, “he’s been nasty to you?”

     Shelby’s mouth tightened at the memories. “Oh yeah.” Her face had gone dark with fury and she hunched her shoulders over as though warding off a blow.

     “Shelby, sweetie, I will make sure he does,” her sister replied. So, Reyansh Philpott had hurt two members of her family, the sod.

     She didn’t have to try. As Veronica marched up to Vitebskin with her new demand that if he wanted to the show to go on, he had to get rid of Reyansh Philpott, the professor reached a pinnacle of rhetoric.

     “You’ve jeopardized everything, everything I and the Collective have worked for! Get out. You have failed the semester, you’ve failed your degree program, and I will see to it that the University throws you out on your lazy, worthless, disrespectful ass.”

     Reyansh Philpott looked around and around and saw no support from anyone. His bridges burned, he shouted, “You are a sterile ass, everyone in the Collective is a pack of suck-ups, and you couldn’t draw anything recognizable if your life depended on it. Your vision is just as empty as your ball-sack. You’ll be hearing from my dad. He’ll sue you _and_ PanU!”

     He stomped off, leaving Professor Vitebskin purple with rage.

     Shelby watched Philpott storm out of the ballroom, watched everyone else stand around mesmerized by the spectacle, watched the spluttering and incoherent professor, thought of the family’s need for money, and steeled herself.

     “Professor?” she called over the gasps and chatter from the Collective. This story was going to race around PanU at top speed and might even push aside the gossip about her. It was well known but never publicly admitted that none of Professor Vitebskin’s three wives or his numerous liaisons had produced offspring. He also never drew anything identifiable, leaving that kind of mundane drawing instruction to one of the lesser adjunct professors.

     “Don’t listen to him.” She glanced over at Veronica, trying to beam her a message. “We don’t have much time to finish getting ready. People will be here soon.”

     Veronica gaped at her little mine mouse of a sister in amazement, then caught Shelby’s underlying message. Not just people would be here soon but paying people and the White Elephant was due half the door receipts.

     “Shelby’s right!” she announced. “We’ve got a gallery showing to get on. Professor Vitebskin, you take charge of the Collective in the ballroom and I’ll get back to the atrium. Decide if you want any paintings moved around.”

     Professor Vitebskin recovered enough to seize the lifeline Veronica tossed him.

     “Why is everyone standing around? Get back to work,” he roared.

     Things moved quickly after that.

     As Professor Vitebskin calmed down, arranging and re-arranging the paintings to accommodate the arrival of his protégés’ paintings and punish unworthy members of the Collective, he spared a moment’s thought towards Shelby’s own pitiful effort. He had allowed her to enter a single painting in the gallery showing, since it took place in the White Elephant. He went and stood in front of the offending piece, studying its slashes of various shades of brown and gray and, appallingly, smears of what looked suspiciously like a lavender-tinged tan verging on mauve. Should he move it to a better position, out of the backwater it currently languished in? She had, after all, worked hard despite her complete lack of artistic ability.

     Across the ballroom, Shelby spotted him in front of her painting, stroking his fashionably razored beard in the manner she knew so well. She went to find her sister.

     “Veronica,” Shelby hissed. “Professor Vitebskin is looking at my painting. My painting! He might move it to a better location.”

     Veronica, via a tremendous act of will, managed not to roll her eyes. “So?”

     “So he might like it.”

     She decided to let her sister down gently. “I suppose that could happen.”

     “I really worked hard on this one.”

     “I know you did. You work hard on all of them.”

     “Veronica, you’re not taking me seriously.”

     Veronica gritted her teeth. “Shelby. Don’t get your hopes up. Okay?”

     “This time is different!”

     “Miss Bradwell. Shelby,” Professor Vitebskin called out. He strode over to the two women, Shelby eagerly smiling at him and Veronica trying hard to look less sour over what she was afraid was coming.

     “Everything is in place. I’ll return within the hour to greet our first guests.”

     “Of course, Professor,” Veronica said. “And we get half the door receipts and a commission on every sale.”

     “Naturally.”

     “Are there any other changes, Professor Vitebskin,” Shelby asked enthusiastically.

     He gave her a look consigning her to a remote tunnel for her open stupidity.

     “No, Shelby. I said everything was in place and I meant it. Good day, Miss Bradwell.”

     He spun on his heel and headed out the door.

     Shelby stared at his back, then at the door closing behind him, then raced off to the ballroom to see if her painting had been moved. It had not. It was still tucked into a corner, where it was unlikely to be observed, hanging around with all the other rejects from the also-rans in the PanU art department. She stood rooted to the floor, seeing again how she rated against the other members of the Collective, despite how hard she tried.

     “I’m sorry, sweetie,” Veronica said, coming up behind her. She draped an arm around her sister. “He’s a cave troll.”

     Shelby could feel her jaw trembling and she swallowed bile. “I really thought that maybe, this time, he’d….”

     “It’s his show and he wants everything exactly the way he wants it,” her sister said. “This is what he wants, your painting shoved into a corner where no one will notice it because it doesn’t suit his _vision_.”

     Shelby stared at her painting for a long, long moment. “It doesn’t matter what I do, does it.”

     “I don’t think so.”

     “And I’m stuck there.”

     “Maybe not. Auntie Neza got an appointment with the bursar next week.”

     “All right then,” Shelby said. “All right then.”

*****

     Veronica saw the Collective out, closing the heavy front doors with more force than necessary. Everything was in place for paying guests to arrive. If the evening went as usual, a horde of wealthy art patrons would show up, pay their credits at the door, gawk at the paintings, gossip about each other, gossip more about the people who weren’t present to defend themselves, and eat far more than a few credit’s worth of food.

     The evening always went better when it was well-lubricated, something they had learned after the first gallery show. Fortunately, Professor Vitebskin provided plenty of alcohol, probably using his art department expense account at PanU. Veronica had always been careful not to ask how he paid for this luxury, feeling she could then legitimately claim ignorance when he was audited.

     Despite the presence of free food and copious amounts of wine – both now resting comfortably in the cold room -- she did not expect to sell any paintings during the evening. They rarely did. If a painting sold later on, afterwards, she wouldn’t get a commission on the sale. In her more cynical moments, Veronica often wondered if the good professor arranged for the sales to take place elsewhere to stiff her on her fee and keep that money for himself.

     Once the opening was over, she would be expected to open the White Elephant for the next two weeks to anyone willing to make an appointment to contemplate the paintings one on one and in quiet isolation. No matter how many appointments Professor Vitebskin arranged, somehow, paintings rarely sold. Yet Shelby told her that paintings did sell, according to the gossip back at the university. Maybe, Veronica thought to herself, she wasn’t being cynical. She was being an astute observer of reality.

     There was nothing she could do about it. What she could do was go upstairs and tell Mr. Jones and his party that the gallery show would be open soon and he could, if he wanted to, rub elbows with the art crowd of Panschin, while eating free food and drinking free wine. That might be enough to bring him down.

     Why did she want Mr. Jones to come downstairs? He’d see a ballroom full of ugly art and get to see her walking around with a tray of snacks like any cocktail waitress. The idea was painful and humiliating, yet she would see him.

     She angrily pushed those thoughts away. It must be the smell of paint, she decided, coupled with the frustration of dealing with the Collective. They were making her crazy. Then she marched back upstairs to do the right thing by her guests, giving them the schedule for the evening and explain the tentative schedule for the next two weeks.

 


	12. art shows, unwanted guests, events, oh my

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The show itself at last.

     The White Elephant had its gate and doors flung wide open, inviting in anyone who wandered down the street. Auntie Neza was posted at a small table outside the doors, collecting a few credits from everyone who showed up at the door. True to her upbringing, she smiled and made polite conversation with each arrival, including those persons who remembered her from better days in the past and either remarked on her new, lowered position in the world or pretended that nothing had ever happened to change her status. She discovered she preferred dealing with people who said something as then, there were no misunderstandings. Former friends who pretended that everything remained as it used to be managed to suddenly go deaf when Neza asked about social get-togethers, relatives in common, and invitations lost in the mail.

     Worse, it made her fret over exactly how bad it had gotten for Shelby at PanU. She had completely misjudged how her niece would be accepted. She was getting old.

     As always, many, many visitors came from the upper reaches of Panschin society, all excited at the prospect of some safe slumming in the bohemian backwater that Dome Two had become. It was a chance to see and be seen, and later on brag to less hardy friends about the experience of getting off at the seedy transtube station and braving the business district and streets of Dome Two. The colorful denizens they passed could be counted on to oblige the out-of-domers with a good story if they saw a chance to earn some coin by begging, sidewalk vending, or street busking. It was extremely rare that visitors got mugged but the threat remained, adding piquancy to the evening.

     Older visitors remembered when Dome Two had been _the_ place to live. They marveled at the ruined mansions they strolled past, discussing how nobody knew how to take care of wonderful, old buildings anymore and wasn’t it such a shame that the great cultural institutions couldn’t be moved to the more salubrious climes of Dome Six.

     The business district entrepreneurs were all prepared for the large influx of visitors. They had signs up advertising goods and services that could not be found in Dome One (government issue only), Dome Three (plebeian), Dome Four (industrial use only), Dome Five (boringly respectable), or Dome Six (your friends already have one or they were never brave enough to eat here). Everything about Dome Two was _unique_ and if you shopped here, some of that uniqueness would rub off on you. To ensure that every possible visitor to the White Elephant gallery showing passed through the business district, signs within the transtube stations had been removed or defaced, forcing visitors to use the official transtube station and not the one closest to the White Elephant.

     Waiting at the outskirts of the business district (thus ensuring friends and relatives with a shop got a chance at some coin) were rickshaw haulers and sedan chair men. There were always a few visitors who would balk at walking like any pedestrian on common, shared streets. They would, of course, be charged far more than the going rate within Dome Two for the short trip from the business district to the White Elephant. They would be charged even more for the return trip later on.

     Police protection was beefed up, as much as it could be, since although the _potential_ risk of being robbed added spice to the evening, an actual robbery meant lawsuits and unpleasant investigations from higher up in the administrative chain. While the beat patrolmen frowned upon muggers and pickpockets, they did nothing to stop enterprising young women from negotiating their virtue with well-heeled visitors. They had bills to pay too, after all. Their activities also added more local color.

     All in all, a gallery showing at the White Elephant provided much needed income for much of Dome Two and, as such, Dome Two got behind the show, promoting it to all and sundry. Veronica had been astonished when, during the promotion of the first show at the White Elephant, she saw how the local business owners took full advantage of any possible chance to extract cash from out-of-dome visitors. After the aggravation and dust from the first gallery show settled, she made it a point to pass along the news that gallery showings at the White Elephant couldn’t be relied upon for a steady income. They were dependent on Shelby’s relationship with the PanU Artists’ Collective and when that stopped, the shows would stop.

     The response from the business community of Dome Two to her concerned inquiry was succinct: so what? We seize our opportunities when and where we can.

     Veronica thought over the local business community’s struggles as she poured cheap, bubbly wine into every piece of stemmed glassware the White Elephant owned or borrowed. This would be the very last showing. She’d never have to subject her family to the Collective again. Their household would manage, somehow, just like every other household and business in Dome Two. You took your opportunities where and when you could.

     She took a quick, illicit sip from a glass of wine, enjoying how the bubbles tickled her throat. She had drunk better in the past but Professor Vitebskin, knowing his audience, purchased vast quantities of hooch over skimpier amounts of top-quality wines. In his stated experience – based on too many faculty functions -- as long as the labels remained unseen, none of the guests would ever recognize what they were drinking as cheap, down-market plonk. He had turned out to be correct. Most of the wine would be swilled down and if there were unopened bottles, he would retrieve them for later use.

     She lifted the glass to the air and silently toasted her sister, setting up trays of nibbles in the ballroom, for growing a spine. Should she, Veronica wondered, make sure every bottle got opened, even if no wine got poured from them? Then she could keep the bottles for trading later on. She enjoyed another sip, a rare treat these days, and decided no. Cheating people was something Simon Bradwell did and she was nothing like her father. She would not seize ‘every opportunity’, only the ones that didn’t taint her soul.

     Veronica drank the rest of the glass down, borrowing courage, and returned the glass to the kitchen for Lulu to wash so it could be refilled and recirculated. A big part of her evening would consist of collecting empty glasses promptly so they could be washed and reused. She had borrowed as many as possible but few people living in Dome Two kept large collections of stemware anymore. It made the array on hand varied in the extreme, helping people to better identify their own wineglass. Washing up also kept Lulu busy and safely away from irritating and being irritated by the paying customers.

*****

     Nunzio discreetly watched the goings on at the front door from the upstairs window. It made a change from quietly monitoring the activities in the atrium from the top of the stairwell. It looked like the gallery show was ready and the White Elephant had opened its doors to the art loving public. He checked what passed for the sky, hoping to see some signs of the sun. The dome overhead didn’t seem to reflect the passage of the sun through its arc, yet, gradually, the light did seem to shift and change through the day and then dim towards twilight. It was taking more time than he would have believed to understand and correlate changes in the dome’s lighting with how he knew the sun and clouds behaved. He wondered if he was the only person from Shelleen to miss being outdoors.

     “Sir?” he said.

     Airik looked up from the report he had been annotating, this one from Chung/Banerjee. It was filled with discrepancies and had taken three readings to decipher exactly what the seller was trying to sell and to then sort out fact from fiction.

     “I know Miss Bradwell hasn’t been back upstairs to tell you so, but it looks like the gallery show has started. There’s people coming up the walk and the old lady is taking their money at the door.”

     Airik thought about what he wanted to do next while Nunzio waited with the stolid mien of a good servant that revealed nothing of his strong interest in his boss’s personal life. His daimyo needed to marry for the good of the demesne. This Miss Bradwell had caught Airik Shelleen’s interest in a way that Nunzio had never before observed. True, she was not a member of the Four Hundred but then his daimyo had never been the type to fret about status. He was interested in competence, character, and hard work. Miss Bradwell met those qualifications from what Nunzio had seen since his arrival. She was also pretty, although not the knockout her sister was.

     Airik realized that he could, legitimately, take a break and let his mind clear. He had been able to concentrate in peace for hours and had made serious headway into the pile of documents. The next step was to mull over what he had read. In the meantime, he could see Miss Bradwell again. Why did he want to see Miss Bradwell again?

     Upton spotted his boss’s indecision, seized his chance, and yawned ostentatiously while cracking his knuckles over the typewriter. The paintings were hideous but a break was a break. Going downstairs would offer a chance to chat up Shelby, whom he’d only seen from a distance when stretching his legs and peeking down the atrium stairwell at the chaos below. Veronica Bradwell was attractive enough, but her sister Shelby was a stunner and absolutely worth the favor of his time. There was also Florence, pretty and well-shaped. And then there was Lulu. She had the allure of a beautifully honed, finely crafted dagger; handsome and dangerous. Such fire, such language. She’d be an exciting challenge. Many of the co-eds he’d spotted in the Collective were also quite attractive, despite their dreary, figure-concealing coveralls. There would be art-loving visitors, many of whom needed the benefit of his company. And there’d be snacks and, hopefully, some kind of libation to make the paintings more palatable. He shuddered. That art needed alcohol. Why didn’t the artists of PanU do nude figure studies? Those would make for much more acceptable viewing, no matter what their artistic merits were.

     Elliot, watching the others, chose not to voice an opinion. A good valet never did, unless asked. However, his extensive diary would get a huge, new addition as soon as he was alone and unobserved. Airik’s getting him a private room of his own at the White Elephant had been an unexpected gift and he planned to take full advantage of the privacy. This trip to Panschin was giving him plenty to write about in his unofficial and unauthorized history of the demesne of Shelleen. He had high hopes that since he did all the packing and unpacking, no one would ever discover his voluminous writings until he was ready to release them into the wider world. At home in Shelleen, he wrote every night in secret and when he was finished, those notebooks disappeared into their hidey-hole. The trip to Panschin had been edifying in every sense of the word but until Airik’s escape to the White Elephant he had been unable to write any of it down.

     “Nunzio,” Airik said. “I’ll go downstairs in a half-hour or so. Stay unobtrusive.”

     Nunzio said, “yes, sir,” while remaining impassive as ever. This was a tricky request. He was too big to blend into the background. He filled the foreground of whatever area he was in. It just happened and there wasn’t much he could do about it. “I’ll do my best.”

     “Upton?”

     “Yes, sir?” Upton smiled brightly at his boss. At last, something fun to do that would last longer than a stolen minute on a break.

     “Do not make a fool of yourself with any of the women, young or old, downstairs, particularly Miss Bradwell, her sister, or her cousins. Do not tell anyone who you are or who I am. I hope to remain anonymous and I will not be pleased if you reveal my identity.”

     “Yes, sir.” Upton’s smile dimmed.

     “Elliot?”

     “Yes, sir,” his valet replied.

     “You may come down or not as you choose. Be discreet.”

     “Of course, sir. May I add sir, that the coveralls will make a sufficient camouflage. It’s common for the residents of Panschin to wear them and indeed, all the Collective artists wear them and so do, I fear, some of the guests I have observed walking towards the White Elephant.” Elliot shuddered ever so slightly over the complete lack of style and taste exhibited by the citizens of Panschin. It was truly a backwater.

     Airik allowed himself a smile. “Very good. We’ll blend right in.”

     Upton chose not to comment. What if they didn’t? What then? They’d be back at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel within short order. There was no chance of keeping hordes of glad-handers, conmen, and reporters away from Airik here. He glanced over at the bed. It wasn’t, he was sure, going to be anywhere near as comfortable as the bed at the hotel. No chance of pleasant company later on either. On the other hand, anything that kept Airik happy and fully functional was worth the risk and he seemed to really want to go downstairs and look at ugly paintings.

     That thought stopped him cold. Airik had never previously shown an interest in art, avant-garde or otherwise. Going over eye-glazing reports was his idea of fun. What was the attraction? Was it their hostess, Miss Bradwell? He looked over at Airik absorbed in yet another report. It couldn’t be. Could it?

*****

     Malcolm Cobb shot his cuffs and adjusted the neckline of his suit in the cracked mirror over his dresser. He looked as good as he was going to get in his conservative, well-cut and well-fitted business suit. It was a very traditional deep blue, with every seam piped in gold, gold buttons, and a faint woven stripe of tone on tone diamonds. He couldn’t afford the newest men’s fashion of floral brocade and he really didn’t like those patterned suits anyways. He certainly wasn’t going to wear a coverall; he no longer needed to wear one unless he was underneath in the deepdown and anyways, all of his were the real, company-issued garment. They were worn, stained, and patched, a dead giveaway compared to the ones he saw being worn by people who didn’t need to perform manual labor to earn their living.

     He studied his hands, turning them over and over. Clean, they were clean, with immaculate nails. No one who saw his hands – as long as they didn’t know what a callus was – would guess he had been underneath recently, helping his relatives dig out that seam of copper for Steelio. He was the assistant bank manager of the local branch of the Second National Bank of Panschin and unless he said differently, no one at this art gallery opening at the White Elephant would ever know his true background.

     He wished he believed himself more. Somehow, everyone always knew and he turned back into just another overdressed, jumped-up scholarship boy, wanting more than a tunnel rat was supposed to have.

     No, he told himself firmly. No one there would know. How could they? Unless, of course, the other guests turned out to be friends or relatives of the idiots he had gone to school with. They all would know. He frowned at the mirror, the crack in it splitting his reflection into two halves that didn’t quite meet right. No. he was smart, he was hardworking, he was ambitious, and there was nothing wrong with any of those traits or with him. Panschin was a growing city and they needed talent. The city needed him. He had his start here in Dome Two and he would use all those skills to prove that Dome Two was undervalued.

     Dome Two needed him even more than the rest of Panschin did, although no one here knew that yet. This art show was an excellent chance to have an evening out, meet people who didn’t know his background, and find out exactly what was happening with the leaseholder of the building, the White Elephant. What a strange name. There were elephants on Mars, but not many and they all lived at the equator in the Wild Side jungles, not in Barsoom and certainly not in Panschin. He had checked. Now that he knew what an elephant was, it was even stranger to name a building after one. Perhaps it was the size. And why white? Elephants were gray.

     He might even start finding out more about how the business district was hanging on. Not surprisingly, few of the local establishments were open to discussing their business dealings with a representative of the Martian government. They didn’t trust him to look out for their best interests, not yet. He had to prove himself to them too.

     He smiled at his split reflection. He liked Dome Two. It wasn’t strictly one thing or the other like the other domes and tunnels; it was as mixed-up a group of people, buildings, businesses and amenities as he had seen anywhere in Panschin. This might be a place he could fit into, a place that could become home. Dome Two allowed the freedom to reinvent oneself and the room to do it in. Here, here, he might have a future.

     In the meantime, he had work to do. Malcolm ran over the lease to the White Elephant, 626 Oleander Lane, one more time. It was standard legalese, without too many unusual changes added over the decades. How were they passing off this art gallery business then, since they weren’t supposed to use the building for commercial purposes? He would have to be careful in his questions. The wrong one would spook the leaseholders or worse, alert his boss who might then cause him or them trouble. He would never be trusted by anyone in Dome Two if his actions got someone thrown out of their home for a specious reason.

*****

     Airik paused at the top of the stairwell, looking down the atrium to the floor below. Quite a few people swirled around between the two curved staircases, circulating from the ballroom on one side to the spacious dining room on the other. Their chatter rose up into the atrium, filling it with a hum and buzz. More than a few of them were dressed in the ubiquitous coverall, something that he was coming to realize was the official Panschin uniform for most purposes. Strangely, most of the coveralls did not look like the people wearing them did any real work as opposed to what he had observed during the transtube rides or the tour of the Jandinaire facility in Dome Four. Some coveralls looked like they were made of silk instead of canvas, one woman wearing what actually looked like velvet with hammered silver buttons. The wear spots looked almost decorative, as though they had been made deliberately, rather than ground-in via hard labor. He had a hard time wrapping his mind around the concept since coveralls, including the ones _he_ wore in the field back home in Shelleen, were strictly utilitarian garments.

     As he expected, nobody looked up as he quietly slipped down the stairs. As in the past, he was invisible and would remain that way, at least until someone recognized him as the daimyo of Shelleen.

     “Excuse me,” someone said, behind him as he looked around from his new position at the base of the staircase.

     Airik stiffened and turned. Damnation, identified already? Would he never escape?

     Miss Bradwell was smiling at him and holding out a tray of wine glasses. “Something to drink? I promise it will make the paintings go down easier.”

     He relaxed and unbent enough to smile back at her in his relief. “Thank you, Miss Bradwell.”

     He couldn’t think of anything else to say. His normally active brain went blank. Worse, his standard conversation about the weather, a fallback position when he didn’t know what to say to someone, vanished into the ether. Fortunately, she did have something to say.

     “Shelby’s circulating with a tray of nibbles and there are more on tables in the dining room and the ballroom. Oh,” Veronica smiled at him and his heart leaped.

     “We also have deviled eggs!”

     She beamed at him with an enthusiasm he had only seen once before when a third cousin presented his fiancé with a diamond necklace, welcoming her to Shelleen and the family.

     “Uh, really? Eggs?”

     “Yes,” she gushed. “They’re a real treat in Panschin.” Veronica stopped and disappointment flashed across her mobile face. “Oh. You’re from Barsoom. Eggs must be routine. Anyways, enjoy the evening and remember, say no. The artists are used to it so don’t worry about hurting their feelings.”

     She scowled suddenly, but not, it seemed at him. She met his eyes, her own suspiciously bright. “They won’t care about yours, I can promise you that.”

     Another voice intruded.

     “Well, well. Veronica Bradwell waiting on tables like some chola. How the mighty have fallen.”

     Veronica flinched, pasted on a smile that even Airik recognized as forced, and lifted her tray of mismatched stemware higher, like a shield.

     “Glass of wine, Mrs. Wangmo?”

     “No. I would never have come here if I knew _you_ were handing out refreshments. They might be poisoned.”

     Veronica stiffened and said, “and yet you gave my auntie Neza coin at the door to get in. That didn’t give you a clue as to who’s house this was?”

     Mrs. Wangmo glared at Veronica, her lip curled in disdain. “She isn’t a Bradwell. You are.”

     Mrs. Wangmo was a formidable matron, her graying curls clamped into the most fashionable hairstyle although not one, Veronica noticed, that was age-appropriate. Her coverall was made of yellow silk and well-adorned with an extensive collection of jeweled brooches.

     “I am not my father. If you will please excuse me, other guests do need drinks,” Veronica said flatly.

     “One moment, Miss Bradwell,” Airik said, daring to put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from fleeing. “Who is this rude … person?” He tilted his head towards the visibly swelling Mrs. Wangmo.

     “Who the hell are you?” Mrs. Wangmo snarled, not giving Veronica a chance to answer the question herself.

     “I’m Airik Jones. From Barsoom. I’m here for the mining conference.” He gave her a long, icy stare consigning her to her place outside everything acceptable, dismissed her as nothing without needing to use a single syllable, then refocused on Veronica, his expression much warmer.

     “Ugh. Mining. Disgusting.” Mrs. Wangmo tried to give the same look to Airik, failed, then said to Veronica, “you do associate with low elements. Your mother would be heartbroken.” She stalked off, but not before snagging the biggest glass of wine.

     Veronica bit her lip hard, trying to control herself. It hurt. After all this time, it still hurt. But Airik Jones, her paying guest, looked concerned about her. He didn’t know what was going on and he deserved an answer.

     “I am so sorry you had to witness that. Please don’t worry about me. Mrs. Wangmo was one of my mother’s friends from before.” She took a deep breath. “My father embezzled some of her money.”

     She waited nervously to see what he would say at such a revelation.

     Airik ran over everything he had seen since his arrival at the White Elephant, the clear lack of money, and the even clearer need for it. Miss Bradwell obviously didn’t have a stash of ill-gotten gains to draw on. If she had, the house would have been fully furnished, competently staffed, and she would not be hosting total strangers with a tray of mismatched wine glasses. Nor was she trying to earn money via some other, illicit manner demonstrated by her list of what she would and would not do with guests.

     “But you are not your father.”

     “No.” Her relief at Airik’s statement was intense. “But not everyone can accept that.” Veronica gazed to where Mrs. Wangmo disappeared into the crowd. “She was always such a snob about her wine. I wonder if she’ll figure out she’s drinking plonk.”

     Airik lifted his glass to his eyes, noticing the tiny bubbles rising to the surface, the slight tinge of pink, and the fact that his glass did not match any of the others on Veronica’s tray although the liquid filling it was identical. He took a considering sip. “It seems acceptable. What is plonk?”

     Veronica smiled at him impishly. “Wine normal people drink when they aren’t trying to impress anyone. It’s drinkable and cheap.”

     She took a quick look around. “I have to go warn Shelby that Mrs. Wangmo is here. Please excuse me and make sure you get an egg before they’re gobbled up. They won’t last long with this crowd.”

     “Of course, Miss Bradwell,” Airik said. He filed the name ‘Wangmo’ away for later reference, along with ‘Bradwell’. He would have some research projects for Elliot tomorrow. He liked knowing who he was dealing with and he already knew he did not like Mrs. Wangmo or her attitude towards the main industry in Panschin, fueling most of its wealth. Miss Bradwell, on the other hand, he did like her. What had happened? What did her father do? Why had he leaped to aid his hostess? And the feel of her shoulder under his hand reminded him that it had been a long, long time since his last intimacies with a woman. He pushed all those disquieting emotions away since now was not the time to examine them.

     He continued to circulate, staying quietly in the background and, as he had hoped, he was ignored by everyone there as being a nonentity. It was a relief and a pleasure to regain anonymity. The paintings, as he had suspected, did not improve upon a closer inspection. The closer inspection did show how beautifully designed the White Elephant had been, when it and Dome Two were new and fashionable. It made its current circumstances even stranger. Elliot’s report would be welcome.

*****

     Veronica found Shelby handing round seasoned, fried blocks of yeast in the ballroom, her face set in stone. The guests she was currently serving were ignoring her, despite being members of the Collective and fellow students at PanU. One of them was Kip, accompanied by a fond older couple who must have been his parents. Like the others, he was pretending he didn’t know the waitress.

     “Shelby, got a minute?”

     “Sure.”

     They retreated to an empty corner of the ballroom, the one where – as Veronica realized too late – Shelby’s painting was exiled.

     Shelby grimaced at her painting. “What is it now? This evening is awful enough already.” She stared at the offending canvas rather than look at her sister. What was wrong with this one? She thought she had toned down the colors she loved enough to make it acceptable to Professor Vitebskin’s exacting standards. There was only the merest hint of lavender, replacing the royal purple she had wanted to use.

     Veronica sighed. “Mrs. Wangmo is here.”

     The painting lost all of its interest for Shelby. “That hag? That cave troll? Since when does she set foot in Dome Two?”

     “I’d guess since she discovered a love of social climbing via avant-garde art appreciation,” Veronica replied dryly. She looked pointedly at the display of paintings in front of her. Shelby’s at least had some color other than shades of dirt. “Her other methods must not be working today. Anyways, she’s already been rude to me. If she spots you, well, don’t expect her to be any nicer.”

     “She wouldn’t come to visit mama after dad, well, you know, and we moved here. She wouldn’t even come to mama’s funeral. Now she comes here?” Shelby said, her voice laced with hurt.

     Veronica hugged her sister. “I know, sweetie. So far, I haven’t seen anyone else from the old days. But if Mrs. Wangmo is here, then her coven won’t be far behind.”

     “Damn them all,” Shelby muttered. “They could have helped.”

     “Miss?” a visitor said. “Are you handing out these drinks or snacks? My party would like some.”

     Veronica whispered to her sister “Never again. Keep reminding yourself. Never again.”

     She pasted on a smile for the paying guest. “Of course. Forgive me. Wine? And my sister will get you a nibble.”

*****

     Malcolm Cobb watched the goings on at the White Elephant from across the street. The house was immaculate, especially compared to its neighbors. It was almost as pristine as a building in Dome Six would have been where it was far easier to keep a structure clean of terraformers. Whatever else the leaseholder was doing of questionable legality, he was keeping the property in tiptop condition, both house and grounds.

     That was an important consideration since it had been obvious to Malcolm since day one that not every leaseholder in Dome Two cared about the conditions of their properties. This lackadaisical attitude towards bank and thus government property extended into his own branch bank. If Desmond Wong had been doing his job properly, then every property belonging to the Second National Bank of Panschin would look more like the White Elephant and less like the house next door, currently almost consumed by a blanket of terraformers. Only the windows on that building remained clear, indicating that someone still lived there.

     Malcolm frowned at that building, its tiny yard shin-deep in more terraformers. He had never seen such a variety of murky greens and muddy browns, all running into each other until you couldn’t tell where one type of terraformer began and the next clump ended. That ruined mansion, along with every other mansion on the street belonged to the Second National Bank of Panschin’s portfolio, yet it looked like it was inhabited by squatters. What was his boss doing? This kind of incompetence was bordering on criminal. When was the last time anyone from the office had been by to check on the properties? Heads might roll if word of this malfeasance got out.

     He smiled coldly down at the lichens blanketing the wall he was standing next to, thick enough to completely conceal the type of stone it was constructed from. He would have to be careful in how he proceeded. He didn’t want his own head to roll, sacrificed by Desmond Wong’s lies in a vain effort to save his own lazy skin. That was the risk, but without risk, there was no chance for gain.

     Malcolm took a moment to dust himself off, making sure he didn’t retain a film of terraformers from his surroundings. He waited for a break in the foot traffic and then quietly strode across the street. Once inside the opened gate, he took a closer look around. The garden area was amazingly well-kept. Even the low, surrounding wall had been swept down, allowing its granite nature to shine forth. Only the most determined, most decorative lichens remained. The paths of white gravel had been raked not just recently, but regularly. They didn’t have any blobby bits marring their appearance. Some of the garden, uh, beds? He wasn’t sure of the exact word for what you called a section of a garden. A room? At any rate, they were full of terraformers but those had been corralled within stone edgings and not allowed to colonize out into the paths. Other beds -- he decided on the word – were full of plants, real plants like the flowers he had admired in planters in the business district.

     The front door was wide open, flanked by an old lady at a table taking money and a pair of planters, spilling over with flowers, the only flowers in the garden belonging to the White Elephant. They looked to be made of fire; a profusion of yellows, oranges, and reds tumbling over each other against glossy green leaves.

     That made him think of his Dome Two brunette beauty and the time he had seen her drawing a planter full of vivid purple and yellow flowers. He had gone up to get a closer look at the planter after she had left, hoping to see what had entranced her. The flowers had markings that made them look almost like smiling faces. They saw him but she had not. She never saw him. He still had no idea who she was or what had upset her so much outside the window of the Dappled Yak. He sighed and got back to the business at hand.

     Malcolm marched confidently up to the front door. The posters had said a collection would be taken at the door to benefit the arts so he was ready with some coin. He had to wonder though as to why anyone who could afford to paint pictures for a living needed to collect still more money from the public. There couldn’t be much money in painting so only people who were already rich could afford to be artists. Why then did they need to ask for more coin? It was a puzzle and another subject that could trip him up when dealing with people who had been born knowing the answer.

     “Hello,” the old lady said to him. “Welcome to the White Elephant and the show. Donations here please.” She smiled warmly and held up a basket so he could put in his money.

     She looked friendly and approachable, a notion reinforced by the shiny, bright pink cane leaning against the table. That was not a hoity-toity color. In fact, one of his young cousins proudly wore nail polish of the same shade.

     Malcolm decided to take the risk.

     “Why do you need donations? I thought only people who could afford to be artists were artists. Regular people have to work for their livings,” he asked pleasantly. He smiled at the old lady in case there had been a sting in his question.

     Neza stared at him, at a loss for words. No one had ever asked before. It was just understood that the arts needed supporting. There was the unspoken corollary that the White Elephant needed its share since hosting a show took cash as the owner of any theater would tell you. Rent and utilities had to be paid. He was a good-looking man in a rough-hewn sort of way so it wasn’t a hardship to stare at him, and, she realized, he was waiting patiently for an answer. It hadn’t been a rhetorical question. He wanted to know.

     “We have bills to pay just like everyone else,” Neza answered smartly. “We can only get so far on barter and volunteer efforts. Would you like to purchase a ticket?”

     She shook the basket again at him. This man didn’t know how to behave at a show so who was he? Nobody who actually lived in Dome Two would pay to see the paintings; the interested residents and business owners would all come by later in the week when it was free and the White Elephant was empty of out-of-domers. Paying visitors fell into neat categories: members of the Collective, all their friends and relatives, anyone else they could dragoon into attending, other students looking for something to do, faculty members with time on their hands, bored thrill-seekers from Dome Six, and the Panschin art community.

     She was suddenly chilled by the memory of the thug who had threatened Veronica the previous week. But the fleeting, dim glimpse she had caught of him didn’t look like this man. This man was very well dressed, for starters, the most formally dressed person in the entire White Elephant. Neza did not consider velvet coveralls to be proper attire for any function. She was wearing a white blouse and long, dark skirt; discreet, easy to maintain, and appropriate for her current activity and station in life.

     “Sure.” Malcolm dropped some coin into the basket and took his paper ticket. “What kind of art will I see? The posters said this was the PanU Artists’ Collective. I’m not familiar with them.”

     Neza was trying desperately to place him. Had she seen this man before in the business district? He couldn’t be from the Panschin arts community or he would know all about the Collective.

     “They’re the student group from PanU,” Neza said. “This show is a way for them to make their debut in a more formal setting than the University, to see and be seen by art collectors.”

     “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

     “Are you new to Dome Two?” Neza asked.

     He smiled at her. “Pretty new. I’m Malcolm Cobb. I moved in a few weeks ago.”

     Neza thought her heart would stop. This was the new assistant bank manager that Mrs. Grisson had warned them about. The ambitious go-getter who was going to make changes. The man who held their lease and thus the future of the Bradwell family in his hand. A lifetime of deportment came to her aid, enabling her to speak without her voice shaking.

     “I’m Neza Molony. Welcome to Dome Two. Please, enjoy the show and have a glass of wine and a nibble or two.” She forced a smile up at him, while making plans to abandon her post and find Veronica at once.

 


	13. the professor is an idiot, aerik has his day, and veronica regrets everything (sorta)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm at the show at the White Elephant

     Malcolm noted the sudden change in Neza Molony’s manner when he told her his name although she concealed it well beneath a veneer of good manners. He thanked her and strode in through the open door into the atrium, wondering all the while over the expression he saw flash across her face.

     It wasn’t disdain. He was familiar enough with that expression; he saw it all the time. It was …. Uneasiness? Fear? Certainly, the old woman was taken aback by his name.

     Then he looked up, stopped dead, and stared all around the atrium of the White Elephant, every thought of his hostess at the door shoved aside. The two-story entryway was sumptuous, the heart of the kind of mansion he had daydreamed of owning someday, with twin, curved staircases soaring gracefully to the second floor and the ceiling above that open to the dome, where the last of the afternoon sun poured down. The balustrades were gilded, the crown and floor moldings were deep and detailed, the parquet bamboo floors gleamed, and the ugliest art he had ever seen desecrated the rich cream walls.

     The painting in front of him was _dreadful_ , smears of what looked like a wide variety of shit from a host of people – some of them with serious intestinal issues – slapped on the canvas. Malcolm tore his eyes away from the train-wreck in front of him to the other walls and the freestanding easels scattered about. Those paintings were all as bad. He had always believed he knew what fine art was. He had visited the Panschin Museum of Fine Art and nothing on their walls looked like this. This was art? No wonder the old lady was taking donations at the door. Nobody would pay for this kind of excrement. It wasn’t even useful as fertilizer.

     Where were the landscapes? Vases of flowers? Cloudscapes? Portraits of famous people or beautiful women? Historic paintings showing the heroic founding of Mars or the building and settlement of Panschin? Religious paintings to instruct on morals and culture? Inspiring paintings showing the hoped-for devastation and destruction of Olde Earthe, those rapacious, bloodsucking bastards? He didn’t expect to see paintings of kittens in baskets or big-eyed puppies; he was sophisticated enough to know they were suitable only as magazine illustrations for sentimental stories. But this! This was a waste of paint.

     Malcolm turned away, doing his best to hide his shock and revulsion, all the while knowing he was not succeeding. So, this was contemporary fine art. No wonder the city of Panschin needed to look for ambition and talent in the working classes; the upper classes had all gone soft in the head. He worked his way through the crowd of chattering onlookers towards the ballroom. He noticed the other visitors seemed more interested in swilling wine from a variety of stemmed glasses and talking about people who weren’t present. They were ignoring the art uglifying the walls as if it didn’t exist.

     An attractive young woman holding a tray of mismatched stemware stopped him. She was wearing a coverall that, while clean, looked like a coverall should. That is, the wear spots appeared to have been worn in through actual labor as opposed to being purely decorative nor did she load it up with ostentatious jewelry. She smiled brightly at him.

     “Glass of wine?”

     “Yes, thank you,” Malcolm answered, and took a glass. The waitress didn’t appear to magically know he was a tunnel rat turned scholarship boy and he felt himself relax. He took the chance to look more carefully at the glass in his hand. The beverage within was sparkling wine, and tasted fine. It was the glasses that were confusing. Was this the newest fad among the upper classes, to use what looked several dozen styles of wineglasses to show off how many patterns a household could afford? That didn’t make sense but you never knew.

     He drifted into the ballroom, following the crowd in a quest to discover the real art that had to be hidden there, probably to contrast more strongly with the shocking images in the atrium. It was also a chance to listen discreetly to more conversations. He recognized no one and no one seemed to know or care who he was. His anonymity gave him the luxury to study the paintings without being bothered. He realized his error at once in thinking that the paintings in the ballroom would be more beautiful or understandable. They weren’t. Only one, a painting tucked into a corner, had any color other than shades of dirt smeared upon it. It had streaks of light purple, a balm to the eye after mountains of tailings.

*****

     Neza plotted her escape, twisting and turning in her seat hoping to see Florence or Shelby trot past with a tray, or better, Veronica herself. She couldn’t leave the table or someone was guaranteed to sneak inside without paying for the privilege of viewing avant-garde art. Then she spotted _him_ sauntering down the street. She prayed he would pass by the gate, pretend the White Elephant did not exist, and that he did not know its inhabitants.

     He did not oblige. He stopped, gazed up at the house, ambled through the gate, and strolled up the gravel path as though he still had every right to be on the property. He stopped at the table and loomed over her, a smarmy smile fixed in place.

     “Neza, so nice to see you again,” Dean Kangjuon drawled, his voice affected as ever. “How’s my Ronnie?”

     It took real determination for Neza to stop herself from saying “wishing she’d never married you, you spineless cave-worm.” She took deep regret in knowing that she’d urged Veronica to marry Dean; such a nice young man from such a good family. It took more effort to remind herself that Veronica hadn’t needed much encouragement so the debacle wasn’t completely her fault. Dean was a smooth-talker, charming as all get out, and handsome enough to sell soap in an advert.

     Although… Hmm. Neza gave him a more critical look over while he preened under her eyes. He was looking puffy around the edges as though the effects of dissipation were setting in. He would normally be immaculately dressed – Dean Kangjuon wouldn’t be caught dead in any garment that carried a whiff of manual labor -- yet the cuffs on his shirt were frayed and there were loose threads along with a missing button. His hair desperately needed a new trim to maintain its sharp lines. Interesting.

     But he was a minor problem who had to be dealt with while the real problem was currently roaming around the White Elephant looking for reasons to throw them out.

     “We’re busy, Dean,” Neza said. “And Veronica is very busy. Could you come back later? Say next year?”

     “No, I can’t. Neza, I need to see Ronnie now.” He winked at her. “You know how it is.”

     “No, I don’t.”

     Instead of bothering to answer, Dean stepped around the table towards the door. Neza swung her shiny pink cane out to trip him but he stopped himself in time.

     She shook her jingling basket at him. “Dean, we’re hosting a gallery showing for PanU and if you want to go inside, you have to pay just like everyone else.”

     He glared at her, then at the basket. “Fine. How much?”

     Neza tripled what she charged everyone else -- it was right there on the discreet sign as a suggested donation -- and to her surprise, Dean paid without complaining about her overcharging him. He did need to speak to her niece, his ex-wife.

     She let him in, craning her neck in a vain attempt to spot someone, anyone who could be trusted to man the front door. No one obliged her. Instead, she fielded a steady trickle of talkative visitors at the front door, enriching the White Elephant’s coffers while keeping her trapped and well away from alerting Veronica to what lay in store for her.

*****

     Veronica continued circulating her tray of plonk, snagging empty glasses whenever she spotted one and returning to the fray with washed and refilled ones. It was amazing how much the gossiping crowd was drinking, while still being able to stand up. She mentioned on a trip through the kitchen that she hoped they wouldn’t run out. Lulu, elbow deep in her tub of sudsy water, suggested collecting abandoned but still partially full wineglasses, pouring the contents together and re-serving them. She thought no one would notice. Veronica flashed in amusement on serving Mrs. Wangmo a glass containing the remains of several people’s drinks and nixed Lulu’s idea, despite its merit in terms of recycling and cost-effective waste management. Instead she poured dregs into a bucket for later use on the garden beds.

     She headed back into the atrium with a fresh tray, still snickering at Lulu’s idea and spotted Airik Jones, back in front of Professor Vitebskin’s most favored protégé’s painting. He had an empty wineglass in his hand and she decided on the spot that he needed a refill. He was a friendly face and he would be polite and see her as a person and not just a lazy waitress with a questionable background. She refused to think over why she wanted to see a man whom she knew for less than a few hours. On the other hand, he hadn’t immediately cut her dead when she had confessed about her dad’s embezzlement. She had plenty of former friends who still refused to speak to her, despite her own innocence and all the time that had passed.

     Airik saw Veronica working through the crowd, looked at his empty glass and decided he needed a refill. She had been correct; alcohol did help the paintings although not enough. And better, this time he would be able to make conversation with her as he had thought of questions about how the atrium skylight functioned throughout the year. When that line of conversation flagged (which he expected), he could then ask about the arrangement of the paintings. There did seem to be an underlying theme, bizarre as that concept was.

     Unfortunately, someone else waylaid her. A strikingly handsome, well-dressed and confident man spotted her too and headed straight for her, the crowd parting between them as though the stranger had choreographed it in advance.

     “Ronnie!” the stranger called out, beaming with cheery good humor.

     Veronica turned to see who was summoning her and even from several meters away, Airik could see her look of dismay. He pushed closer to her through the onlookers, none of whom parted before him. Airik had a sudden, irritated flash that if this mob knew he was the daimyo of Shelleen, they’d get out of his way. His common sense reasserted itself, informing him that if he was recognized, _he’d_ be the one mobbed when the people currently ignoring him realized their chance to sell him on idiotic business schemes and unwanted intimate family connections.

     Veronica didn’t bother pasting on a smile for Dean, a fact Airik also noticed and filed away since it contrasted so strongly with how amiable she had been with everyone else, even Mrs. Wangmo.

     “Don’t call me Ronnie, you know I hate it,” she said. “Did you pay for a ticket?”

     Dean looked annoyed for just a moment, the expression flashing across his face to be replaced by a charming smile for someone he dearly missed.

     “You are such a kidder, Ronnie,” he said. “I bought my ticket from Neza. Want to see it?” He winked salaciously at her. “I can show you other things too. You always liked that.”

     Veronica stifled a groan. All this time, all this water under the bridge, and Dean still believed she’d fall at his feet with her legs spread. Those days were long gone. She stepped back away from his attempted hug.

     “What do you want, Dean? I’m busy so make it quick.”

     “Fine, if that’s the way you want to be.”

     “I do. So get on with it.”

     “Ronnie, I have a terrific deal for you. It will make us both rich.”

     “Oh, Dean, those plans never work. If they did, my dad’s terrific deals would have worked and we’d already be rich. And we’d still be married.”

     She grinned at him suddenly, showing all her teeth, but her expression wasn’t friendly. “I guess things did work out for the best.” She did not offer him a drink from her tray.

     Dean dropped his charming smile and grabbed Veronica’s arm, narrowly missing knocking over a glass.

     “Ronnie, you have to listen to me. It’s important.”

     Veronica tried to pull away from him, without spilling her tray of wine glasses. None of the glasses on this tray belonged to the White Elephant and any she broke, she would have to replace.

     “Dean, you are no longer my husband so I no longer have to listen to you. Let go of me and go away,” she retorted.

     “Miss Bradwell, is this person bothering you?” Airik said icily. He had shoved his way towards them, forcing the interested bystanders to part for him. He looked even colder than he had when speaking to Mrs. Wangmo.

     Dean glanced at this officious stranger and dismissed him instantly as a nonentity, turning his attention back to Veronica. He did let go of her arm, and she stepped back at once, well out of reach and much closer to Airik Jones.

     “Ronnie, I need this.”

     “Mr. Jones, ignore this idiot please,” Veronica said to him.

     To her former husband she said, “Dean, whatever it is, I don’t need it. And you don’t need me. As I recall, you told me so yourself as did your entire family.”

     His face darkened with anger and he started to raise his fist. She hastily stepped back another step, closer to Airik.

     “Get out or I’ll call security and have you thrown out. Do you want that in front of this crowd?” Veronica said firmly, hoping he wouldn’t hear the lie. Unlike her father, she didn’t look upon lying as an artform and she wasn’t very good at it. She noted Dean’s expression and added, “you know how people talk. Someone will tell your mother you were here. What would she say?” That last wasn’t a lie, more of a threat, really.

     Dean’s face froze in a snarl, all his handsomeness fled.

     “You are making a mistake and you will regret it,” he grated out. He noticed that Mr. Jones had moved closer to Veronica, almost as though he knew her well enough to be concerned about her wellbeing. “And who is this fool? Another new man to warm your bed?”

     Veronica gasped in outrage, then recovered enough to say, “How dare you! Unlike you, I don’t sleep around, I have never slept around, and for your information, Mr. Jones is a guest.”

     For his part, Airik was frozen with rage. He had not been this angry since discovering what Howard had done to endanger all of Shelleen. Sadly, he could not have Dean flogged in the public square in front of a horde of peasants and all of Dean’s horrified and chastened relatives. He found his hand going directly to his rock-hammer and chisel tucked into a pocket. They couldn’t be used either, any more than he could have used them on the driver of the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel vehicle and that person had been only doing his job. Whoever Dean was, and whoever he had been to Veronica Bradwell, he had no reason to threaten her.

     “You need to …,” Airik began.

     “I’m going,” Dean interrupted. He had paled, his eyes suddenly very wide, and he spun on his heel and walked quickly away, heading directly towards the dining room behind him.

     Veronica tried to get her heartbeat and breathing back under control. Mr. Jones, her guest, stood there and she had to say something to him, even if she didn’t have to say anything to the people standing around enjoying the free show. The tray of wineglasses shook in her hands, making the glasses clink against each other and the wine fizz.

     “I’m so sorry you had to see that, Mr. Jones.” She chuckled weakly. “I’m always apologizing to you. Dean is another part of my past come back to haunt me. My former husband.”

     “Yes,” Airik replied. He took the tray from her nerveless hands. “I deduced that from your conversation with him.” A statement from their conversation leaped out at him because it did not match what he had observed since his arrival.

     “Do you have a security staff?”

     Confused, Veronica gaped at him for a moment, then chuckled again, even more weakly. “Oh, no, I don’t. I lied to Dean.”

     She flushed in embarrassment. “I, well, I didn’t know what I was going to do if he ignored me and it was the only thing I could think of that he might listen to and stop causing trouble.”

     She indicated the people standing around who were suddenly deeply interested in the art they had previously been oblivious to. “I certainly couldn’t involve the gallery show-goers.”

     Airik gazed coolly around the atrium. No one in the crowd met his eyes. “I would have to agree, Miss Bradwell. I do not believe anyone here would have gotten involved on your behalf.”

     She knew he was correct, standing there holding the tray of stemware she had almost dropped. Veronica didn’t know what to say to him next so she took refuge in the inane. “Glass of wine? I was coming to give you one.”

     Airik smiled at her. “And I was coming to get one.”

     He wanted to wince at how idiotic he sounded and wondered why he cared. More shocking, now that his adrenaline levels were going back to normal, was the realization of how strongly he had reacted to the altercation between Miss Bradwell and her ex-husband. Why did he care? And why did he care so much that Miss Bradwell had an ex-husband? He would have to send Elliot out first thing tomorrow to start that report. Airik knew he always functioned better when he had facts and not just hearsay. He was operating blind with Miss Bradwell. She, he was coming to realize, clouded his judgement.

*****

     Professor Vitebskin, who had been eavesdropping on the interaction between Veronica Bradwell, some reddish-haired stranger, and her ex-husband with great enjoyment, decided it was time to move in and discover who this rather nondescript man with the penetrating eyes was. He was decidedly unfamiliar, yet here he was at the PanU Artists’ Collective show studying the paintings intently. This stranger had taken his time, moving through the show slowly, and even seemed to have noticed the underlying theme since he had followed the progression of paintings that he, Professor Vitebskin, had taken such pains over. Very few other gallery goers had.

     Moreover, he seemed to know Veronica Bradwell. He had taken the tray of wineglasses from her, rather than see her drop the tray and was only now returning it. No one would take such care of a stranger.

     The professor felt a thrill run through him, contemplating a sale to a hitherto unknown connoisseur of the avant-garde and, even better, if he handled the man properly, Miss Bradwell would not receive a commission on the sale of any paintings and he, Professor Vitebskin, could pocket the difference. He needed the money for his legal fees and that Miss Bradwell, who had never been properly respectful towards him in the past and was even less so now for some unknown reason, had no such needs. Poverty wasn’t a good enough reason. She could scrub floors on her hands and knees in Dome Six if she needed money that badly. It would serve her right. Maybe she could scrub toilets alongside the soon-to-be-former Mrs. Vitebskin number three.

     It was a deeply pleasant thought, providing him a genuinely warm expression as he strode forward to her and her mysterious companion.

     “Miss Bradwell,” Professor Vitebskin demanded. “Please, introduce me to this gentleman.”

     Veronica tried to school her face but couldn’t manage avoiding a flash of distaste. She’d been dodging Professor Vitebskin since his return at the start of the show. She knew how to serve plonk, she understood the importance of hiding the labels on the wine bottles, and she did not need him micro-managing her handling the backstage needs of the show, particularly since he had not provided anyone from the PanU Artists’ Collective to assist her. This was the last show, she reminded herself. Once she had her share of the ticket receipts, she could stop being polite.

     “Of course, Professor,” she said, trying to sound less sour. “May I introduce my guest, Airik Jones? He’s here in Panschin for the mining conference.” She turned to Airik who had an odd, frozen expression on his face.

     “Mr. Jones? This is Professor Lemuel Vitebskin, the head of the PanU Art Department, the driving force behind the PanU Artists’ Collective, and the instigator of this gallery showing.”

     To Airik’s intense relief, Professor Vitebskin did not shout ‘The Daimyo of Shelleen!’ and alert everyone in the atrium to his true identity. In fact, he didn’t show any sign of recognition at all.

     “The mining conference, eh?” Professor Vitebskin said. He wanted to say ‘how pedestrian’ but managed to stop himself in time. This man might have money and it wouldn’t do to offend him. If he was highly placed in the industry, he had money to burn and he could possibly introduce other such mining people to Professor Vitebskin and the fine arts. That kind of wealth deserved to be shared.

     “So, you aren’t from Panschin?” he said, looking for an opening.

     ‘He doesn’t know who I am,’ Airik realized, feeling relief wash over him like a soothing breeze on a hot summer day. ‘He may be a university professor but he doesn’t read newspapers.’

     “I’m from Barsoom.”

     “Really?” Professor Vitebskin gushed, his face alight with joy. “Barsoom? Are you an art appreciator? If so, let me be the first to welcome you to Panschin. My students are the future of fine art and I know that any of their efforts will grace your home in Barsoom.”

     Barsoom! The very beating heart of culture, art, and refinement. Professor Vitebskin wanted to jump up and down and scream with joy. Despite all of his efforts, he had no contacts in Barsoom, and here a visitor from those exalted halls had dropped into his lap. He could guide Mr. Jones to exactly the right painting, a painting that would open doors to the museums of Barsoom, a painting that would get him, Professor Vitebskin, the hell out of Panschin and out in the wider world where he deserved to be.

     He’d never had to work with another ungrateful, lazy student again. He’d never again waste time in departmental infighting over inadequate budgets. He would never again have to deal with other jealous professors and untalented instructors. He would make careers in a way that he never had before. His vision would define the art world for generations to come. His name would live forever, enshrined in monographs and museum catalogs as the prophetic finder of the greatest painters in the world. Every one of those artists would be in his debt.

     He could even -- he allowed himself to see the shining vista stretching before him -- have his own paintings hung in Barsoom. He would not just be the discoverer of new talent; he too would be finally recognized as the virtuoso he was. No longer would he be just be a talent scout; his own, hitherto undiscovered, creative genius would be acknowledged. He would be revered on every possible artistic level.

     The world lay before him at his feet, supine, gloriously lascivious, and panting in her eagerness to know him better.

     As Professor Vitebskin watched the glittering future unfold before him, he became aware that both Veronica and Mr. Jones were eyeing him but not with adulation.

     “Are you all right, Professor?” Veronica asked. He didn’t seem drunk or drugged, nor did he seem to be having a stroke. He definitely did seem to have had his mind evaporate, standing there with his mouth hanging open and a thousand-yard stare.

     “I am perfectly fine, Miss Bradwell,” Professor Vitebskin answered absently. She was no longer of any importance. He’d never again have to do a show at the White Elephant and deal with her or anyone else in the PanU Artists’ Collective, the thankless sods.

     “Mr. Jones, tell me what inspires you about our paintings. Which work of my students speaks to you,” Professor Vitebskin said earnestly.

     He had to forcibly keep his hands at his sides, rather than clutching Mr. Jones to his bosom and dragging him through the White Elephant to study each painting more closely in case Mr. Jones had missed some exquisite display of technique or some particularly beautiful handling of color theory.

     Airik thought for a moment, running over his mental list of the paintings. He had taken a careful look at each of them, both from a few steps away and up-close. Professor Vitebskin gazed at him in open admiration, giving him plenty of time to make this all-important decision.

     Veronica considered wandering off to hand out more wine but decided to stay by her guest, protecting him as best she could from the clutches of Professor Vitebskin and the PanU Artists’ Collective. The commission on a sale would be very nice and extremely useful but Mr. Jones deserved better art to hang on his walls. She included Shelby’s entry in the gallery showing, despite it being painted by her sister. Shelby could and had done better work, even if it didn’t meet Professor Vitebskin’s criteria. They had examples hanging in all the upstairs bedrooms.

     Like Professor Vitebskin, she waited nervously to see what Airik Jones would say.

     “None of them,” Airik said.

     “Excuse me?” Professor Vitebskin said, suddenly chilled to the bone. He must have misheard. “I don’t understand.”

     “They are appalling. What is the aim of these paintings?” Airik asked. “Their purpose in existing?” He waved his glass at the painting looming over them, its subject looking remarkably like what he had once observed scraped out of an improperly handled manure pit, spread onto a field, and then plowed under.

     Professor Vitebskin watched his glittering dream crumple into shards of slag glass, loaded with razor sharp edges designed to draw blood in the most painful manner. The world got up, rearranged her garments, and stalked away, laughing cruelly at his presumptuousness.

     “Their purpose? Their purpose? Why to illustrate the ugliness of Panschin and the extractive industries. To show solidarity with the toiling masses. To demonstrate what mining is and does,” he sputtered.

     “If the purpose of these paintings is to demonstrate any kind of mining techniques,” Airik replied coldly, “then they have failed dismally. They are a mass of pigment thrown haphazardly upon a canvas and as such, cannot be used as any sort of guideline.”

     “A guideline?” Professor Vitebskin drew himself up in outrage. “That is technical drawing, competent to be sure, but completely lacking in any kind of artistic vision. It is hackwork for hire.”

     Airik stared at the professor for a moment in disbelief, taking in his crisply ironed charcoal gray coverall, artistically decorated with sprays and spatters of silver and gold paint and wear spots carefully added via sanding the fabric. His clothes, his grooming, and his hands said he obviously knew nothing about manual labor so there was no point in wasting words on the subject.

     The professor, however, should understand something about the diverse fields of art.

     “Good technical drawing,” he finally said as the professor fumed, “ _is_ artistic. It allows information to be passed from one person to the next in a compact, complete form. A good technical artist’s efforts are worth every penny, whereas these paintings are no longer worth the sum of their materials or the time expended upon them.”

     Veronica, who happened to fully agree with Airik Jones, took real enjoyment at seeing the wave of purple rage pass over Professor Vitebskin. Why he looked almost as angry as he had earlier when Reyansh Philpott had told him off. She wanted to salute her guest with a toast but her hands were full with the tray.

     “You sir, are an ass with a plebeian, bourgeois mindset and no understanding whatsoever of creative vision,” Professor Vitebskin spat out. He grabbed a glass from Veronica’s tray, slugged back some plonk, and stalked off into the ballroom where the possibility of other prey lurked.

     Veronica giggled. “Well done, Mr. Jones. You’ll be left in peace for sure.”

     “Miss Bradwell?” Airik asked. “This man is a university professor?”

     “He is, Mr. Jones. Why do you ask?”

     “I do not believe he understands that plebeian and bourgeois are not synonyms.”

     Veronica beamed at Airik Jones, warming his heart. She laughed and said, “he’s fine arts and not languages. You shouldn’t expect any better, really. All those paint fumes soften their heads.”

     “I see,” said Airik and smiled at Veronica Bradwell. He had not meant to make a joke, but she had laughed as though he had. He admired the line of her throat as she laughed, noticing the pulse in the hollow of her throat and how it was highlighted by her string of cloudy gray beads. Yes, she definitely impaired his judgement since he would have normally focused on her beads to decide what stone they were made from instead of how her skin would feel under his fingertips.

*****

     Upton had been circulating slowly through the atrium, the ballroom, and the dining room. Airik’s insistence that he not chat up either Bradwell sister or their two cousins had cast a pall over his enjoyment of the show.

     He had to remind himself that it was probably just as well. Veronica was trotting around with trays of wineglasses, Shelby was running around with trays of something that everyone here ate willingly that he tried and found disgusting, and Florence was racing back and forth from some back-pantry refilling serving trays. None of them had time to chat. Lulu did have time to chat, in between stints at her washtub of dishes, but she had looked at him like he was a bug needing to be crushed when he stopped by. The cook’s knife she had picked up and threatened to use on the protruding portions of his body had reinforced his decision to stay out of the kitchen.

     The co-eds he had such high hopes over meeting weren’t much better. They all seemed to have hostile boyfriends in tow. There was also a language barrier. The PanU Artists’ Collective seemed to use an unintelligible slang all of its own, making the Panschin accent harder to understand than it should have been. You would think they didn’t want to talk to charming strangers.

     The visitors to the gallery show had not been any more rewarding. More than a few of the ladies appeared unattached and eager to meet someone new and charming. Sadly, he did not wish to attach himself to any of them enough to figure out how to go somewhere else in the wilds of Dome Two and then quietly return afterwards. Women of a certain age were always energetic and adventurous but they were also experienced enough to demand nice hotel rooms instead of a quick shag behind a hedge. Upton had learned conclusively that with the Biennial Mining Conference in Panschin, there were no hotel rooms to be found anywhere. Only places like the White Elephant had room at the inn and if you didn’t already know they existed, they didn’t exist.

     There was the upstairs of the White Elephant, with several available rooms. He thought of Airik’s reaction if he found out and shuddered. Airik wanted peace and quiet and no possibility of discovery or problems or anything, really, that would interfere with working through briefing papers. If Veronica Bradwell discovered that he, Upton, was using a room for illicit purposes, she was quite likely to throw them all out and refuse to refund any of the room fees. And afterwards, he would have to explain himself to Airik, followed by the Shelleen delegation here in Panschin, and then the family back home. The skin on his back twitched.

     He rolled his eyes at the unfairness of it all, sipped some more cheap wine, and searched for something edible on the snack trays. Thank the gods there were radishes and sliced daikon along with the yeast blocks and the utterly disgusting little dumplings filled with green muck. The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel, noisy, annoying and overbearing as it was, could be counted on for better food. Another glass or two of wine would wash it all down and away.

*****

     Nunzio circulated quietly, as Airik requested. It turned out to be easier than he thought to stay in the background, drink a single glass of free wine and eat weird but free snacks. Most of them were acceptable but he didn’t think he’d ever be hungry enough to eat a second dumpling filled with green slime. The pictures were ugly but there was no help for that. He never wandered too far from Airik, always keeping him in eyeshot. He kept a weather eye out for anyone he recognized from the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel or the various meetings coming in through the front door. So far, it did not appear that anyone involved in the extraction industries had a taste for art, at least this kind of art. Since they were all practical-minded business people, Nunzio assumed that they considered this sort of art a waste of money. But you never knew, so he kept a lookout in case Airik needed to retreat back upstairs.

     “Nunzio,” Elliot asked quietly. They were watching the daimyo, Miss Bradwell, and some idiot claiming to be her husband. “Should you step in?”

     “Nah. He’s doing fine.”

     “I meant Miss Bradwell.”

     Nunzio gave him a look. “I would not be doing my lord Airik any favors, making him look bad.”

     Elliot thought this over for a moment. “Ah. I think I understand.”

     “My lord Airik has to marry for the good of the demesne. It’s time and past,” Nunzio said. He crossed his arms across his chest, keeping a closer eye on the action than he would admit to Elliot. He was sure he wouldn’t be needed, however. The ex-husband didn’t carry himself like a fighter of men. A woman, now that would be different. He looked the type who’d slap a woman around and be able to fully justify his abuse afterwards. Yep. He just proved it.

     “This is true. He should. However, Airik has never carried on like Upton,” Elliot said. “He does not go looking for cheap flings and tawdry affairs.”

     Both men looked over across the atrium into the ballroom where Upton was trying to chat up a pretty co-ed, the fourth one in a row by Elliot’s count and he knew, given the size of the first floor and the crowd, he had missed at least one other such encounter, probably more, given the amount of time that had elapsed since they all came downstairs. Elliot added “My lord Airik would be _serious_ about his intentions but Miss Bradwell is not part of the Four Hundred. Whatever you may think, she is most unsuitable.”

     Nunzio snorted. “I didn’t meet either of those two first fiancées when they visited Shelleen. That Miss Melissa and Miss Bertrille. My lord Airik didn’t need a bodyguard back then. I heard about them later on though, what they had to say to him. Then I saw how they acted in Barsoom, practically climbing on top of Airik and in front of their husbands too! Those ladies are Four Hundred. You think they’re better than Miss Bradwell?”

     He did not add that he’d always believed Elliot was a dyed-in-the-wool snob and nosy to boot, always asking questions, prying and spying. Of course Elliot would prefer a lady from the Four Hundred for the daimyo’s wife. Status was at stake and Miss Bradwell had none. It wouldn’t matter to Elliot that Miss Bradwell had been pleasant and smiling since he’d come downstairs and made sure he knew where everything was, just like he was a real guest. Her sister and both of her cousins, although they didn’t look related, had been just as nice.

     Elliot pursed his lips up. He had observed both Miss Melissa and Miss Bertrille during their visits to Shelleen. The Four Hundred nearly always used arranged marriages as how else did you keep the money within the families and the bloodlines well-mixed while avoiding dilution from commoners? Sadly, he had not been impressed with either of the young ladies, despite their quality backgrounds. They had been flighty and shallow from what he had seen, but what could you do? Shelleen had been an agricultural backwater and the family had to take the marriage arrangements they could get. Now that it no longer had to, thanks to the Red Mercury lode, the daimyo was digging in his heels and refusing the choices being presented to him.

     “I will agree Miss Bradwell seems to have character. Even so, nothing will come of it,” Elliot said. “The family would never approve.”

     “Probably not,” Nunzio agreed distractedly. What had the ex-husband seen that made him scarper off like a frightened rabbit? Most of the guests didn’t carry themselves like they could be dangerous. He’d have to study the crowd more closely and figure out what he missed. There were a few candidates who didn’t quite fit in but their behavior had been exemplary. He’d have to watch them more closely.

*****

     Professor Vitebskin stood shaking with fury at the doorway to the ballroom. He fought for calmness. Damn Airik Jones. The cheap philistine. It was probably Veronica Bradwell’s fault he didn’t properly appreciate avant-garde art and want to pour money into a collection of marvelous paintings. She’d probably lied about Jones being from Barsoom too. The man was obviously a yokel from some gods-forsaken backwater way out in the provinces.

     The professor stopped, his hand braced on the wall to lend him support. That didn’t make sense. The Bradwell family needed the commission it would earn on a painting sale. Even Veronica, disrespectful as she was, knew the value of a credit. Look at how hard she had bargained over the PanU Artists’ Collective paying the cost of the nibbles being served. She had even insisted on being reimbursed for the cost of the vegetables she grew, vegetables that she should have willingly and graciously contributed to the greater cause of the arts. The bitch. Scrubbing toilets was too good for her. She should scrape out cesspits.

     He took a deep, calming breath, then several more. He had spotted another visitor to the show, a very well-dressed stranger. This man was not part of the Panschin arts establishment, virtually all of whom Professor Vitebskin knew on sight. The stranger had openly disliked the stunning painting hung front and center in the atrium, the finest work of Professor Vitebskin’s favorite protégé. However, the stranger was still here, still looking at the paintings, so there was hope that this man might become a new art fancier. More importantly, he did not seem to know Veronica Bradwell from a hole in the ground. He needed guidance to appreciate what he was seeing and the Bradwell family wouldn’t interfere for bizarre reasons of their own.

     Professor Vitebskin smoothed out the collar of his coverall, ran his fingers through his hair to freshen its properly tousled look, and settled himself to the task of seeking out and educating this potential new collector. This rabbit would not get away.


	14. meetings, terrible art, and yet another unwanted guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (its becoming a bit of a habit, honestly.)
> 
> or: Malcolm meets Shelby.

     Shelby trotted around and around the ballroom, dispensing nibbles from her tray and trying hard to smile pleasantly at everyone. So many of the gallery goers were familiar to her and yet they all had totally forgotten that they saw her daily in the art studio or on campus. She had turned into the help, just another lazy waitress who didn’t respond fast enough to the snap of fingers. She kept reminding herself what her sister said: “Never again.”

     She also had to keep asking herself why no one else in the Collective volunteered to help serve the guests. The other students were willing to set up the display, even scrape the outside of the White Elephant clean, but run their legs off ferrying cheap wine and nibbles to the Panschin art establishment? That was different somehow; as if being seen in a service capacity was unacceptable. Based on how she was being treated, Shelby had concluded that no matter what everyone at the University said about solidarity with the working class, they didn’t mean it.

     Kip’s McGrant’s indifference today was especially painful. She was slowly coming to realize that Kip did like her. He liked her very much, but only when there was no one around to notice he was slumming. When no one who mattered was around, he was funny and interested in what she did and always eager to talk and joke. When people who mattered were around – those higher up on the social ladder which was just about everyone where Shelby was concerned – he treated her like furniture.

     Shelby reached the sad conclusion that Kip was just like every other guy she’d met since being forced to move to Dome Two. She knew she was pretty but being pretty without a good family to back you up didn’t get you anywhere other than into a hotel room, the kind that rented by the hour. Kip didn’t even respect her enough to introduce her to his parents as a fellow student and one of the other members of the PanU Artists’ Collective, although, she noticed, he had done so with all the other Collective members.

     And here auntie Neza had believed that she’d meet some nice young man from a good family at PanU. That would never happen and this evening was the final proof of how delusional her great-aunt had been. Shelby offered her tray of algae dumplings to another finger-snapping gallery goer who saw her tray, accepted her nibbles, but didn’t see her. If Neza could get her into PCC’s commercial arts department, she wouldn’t complain about doing hack work for hire, drawing treacly illustrations of kittens or worse, pickaxes. It was still art, she’d make some hard coin, and she could draw what she wanted in her off hours.

     Her tray empty again – it was amazing how these people stuffed themselves when they could claim it was for a good cause – Shelby worked her way through the crowd, invisible to everyone, to get a fresh tray from Florence. Waiting tables at the Dappled Yak had to be better than this; she’d be seen and she’d get paid. She spotted Mrs. Wangmo, who did see her, and demanded a dumpling while curling her lip in open disdain. At least, Shelby thought, she had been seen even if it had been with a sneer. It meant she existed.

     Back in the ballroom, she worked her way patiently through the crowd towards the far corner where her own painting was ignored with the other also-rans. Kip’s own sludgy effort was languishing here too, which, she had to admit, wasn’t surprising. Her own paintings didn’t meet Professor Vitebskin’s standards no matter what she did. Kip didn’t put in nearly as much effort at his own art and she often wondered why he was in the arts department in the first place. He didn’t care the way she did and in fact, didn’t seem to care about creating like most of the other students did. It was a mystery. Watching Kip chatting up another pretty fellow-student and introducing that girl to his parents made Shelby not want to solve his mystery any more.

*****

     Malcolm slowly worked his way around the ballroom, pretending to take another look at the paintings. It gave him a chance to explore the public areas of the White Elephant and consider what to do next. He didn’t recognize any of the other guests nor did anyone recognize him. This wasn’t, he thought, the worst thing to happen. He was invisible but that was better than being openly disdained. Interestingly, like the waitress who had given him his glass of wine, anyone who did meet his gaze did not seem to automatically think ‘scholarship boy’ or ‘jumped-up tunnel rat’. He was a well-dressed connoisseur of the arts, but also a stranger without a known place in the social hierarchy. As of yet, no one wanted to go first. This group of people fit a pattern he knew; they were curious about him but they weren’t ready to introduce themselves to a total stranger of unknown status especially when it was so much more fun to rip apart acquaintances who weren’t present to defend themselves.

     He could not figure out why Neza Molony, the lease-holder, was taking money with a little basket at the front-door. Wasn’t she the hostess? It was her house. Everything he had been taught said she should be holding court somewhere in this beautiful, grand mansion while wearing elegant, expensive clothes; in other words, receiving visitors like a daimyah in the Four Hundred. Someone else should be manning the front door; someone like one of the students. The PanU Artists’ Collective had found the young woman who had given him his glass of wine. Surely, they could have found other volunteers to do the scut work.

     Malcolm turned around slowly scanning the crowd. Based on seeing people eating, the Collective had found someone to hand out nibbles although evidently, they had not gotten enough volunteers for this task either. The scattered tables with trays perched on them weren’t up to the task, emptying out rapidly but not being refilled nearly as fast. It would be nice to get something to eat. He recognized the young lady ferrying trays back and forth and wondered if he would see the rest of her trio, particularly the one he most wanted to meet.

     Then he saw her. His Dome Two brunette beauty. She was here too. She was carrying a tray around, loaded with nibbles, and running back and forth between patrons when they snapped their fingers at her, wanting service right now rather than walk over to a tray on a table and serve themselves. She wore a tired, pasted-on smile, the kind he was very familiar with. He’d worn it himself many times when he had to look pleasant and helpful no matter how he was seething inside.

     What was she doing here? If she was a student at PanU, like he thought she was, shouldn’t she be one of the guests? She couldn’t be a student at PanU, the way she was being treated. Everyone there was upper-class and higher. Scholarship boys like him didn’t go to PanU. They went to the more practical schools where they got a practical education to repay the money invested in them by the taxpayers of Panschin. Yet here she was, being ordered about like some tunnel girl in a cheap cafe. Everything he had observed about her said she was from the upper levels of society. What was he missing?

     He watched for a few more minutes, giving himself time to decide what to say. She didn’t have time to spare for idle conversation, that was apparent. He already knew he did not want to snap his fingers for service. Whoever his Dome Two beauty was, she deserved better. He would not treat her the way the rest of the crowd was doing.

     He began quietly tracking her, waiting for a chance to introduce himself and, at last, she emptied out her tray. But instead of heading back towards the dining room for a refill, she retreated to the far corner of the ballroom. He made a snap decision and followed her. This was his chance to introduce himself and maybe, this time, she would see him. He wouldn’t be invisible anymore.

*****

     Tray empty again, Shelby retreated to the ignored corner where she could snatch a few minutes of peace before returning to the fray. The way Professor Vitebskin had arranged the paintings on their easels ensured that very few people made it all the way back here. She didn’t bother studying her own entry again, fretting over why it didn’t make the grade when, to her eyes at least, it stood out from the other sludgy efforts relegated to the dross heap. That was a waste of time and energy, energy she could put to better use catching her breath and calming herself enough to wait on people who despised her.

     Then she spotted him again, threading his way between the easels. He was far and away the best dressed visitor to the show, wearing a conservative business suit that made him stand out in a crowd of people ostentatiously wearing coveralls that had never seen real labor. Another upper-class twit, no doubt, and trying to get her alone.

     She frowned, thinking hard. Probably, based on his clothes, he was also one of the upper-class businessmen or mine owners who squeezed every possible bit of work out of his underlings and threw away their used-up husks into the tailings. Those people never wore coveralls, even velvet ones. Yet what was he doing here at the White Elephant?

     The whole point of the PanU Artists’ Collective was to demonstrate, via art, how the working classes were exploited by their betters. The people who came to the shows all claimed solidarity with their exploited brethren.

     That was what Professor Vitebskin proclaimed over and over, a speech backed up by all the other instructors in the arts department and quite a few professors from other PanU departments to boot. Shelby had repeated this spiel to Veronica soon after arriving at PanU and had listened to her sister’s gales of laughter, laughter which ended in Veronica’s own speech about paying attention to costly actions instead of cheap, empty words. Auntie Neza had sniffed in disdain but refused further comment. Shelby had then passed along the same lecture to Lulu and Florence. Their reaction wasn’t any better than Veronica’s, although Lulu used words she’d never heard before to express her opinion of the PanU faculty. Florence was more tactful. She was also kind enough to provide definitions for Lulu’s vocabulary. The memory still stung and Shelby never brought the subject up again.

     Shelby thought harder, trapped in the corner with few ways out other than past him, knocking over an easel, or through a window. For the first time, she was allowing herself to see the incongruity between what she was told, over and over, and how those lecturers actually behaved when in the presence of lower-status peons. She and her sister sure fit the bill now, after what dear old dad had done to them. Lulu and Florence had a better fitting place in Panschin. They were who they were, without an up and down ore-car ride of status changes to confuse the issue.

     And, she had to admit, she’d never seen anyone at the gallery shows the White Elephant had hosted who came from any of the business classes, wealthy or not. Veronica had told her that while the local business owners in Dome Two would stop by later on in the week, they only came to jeer and snicker and gossip. Whatever kind of art those people bought to hang on their walls must not have looked like what the Panschin art establishment liked. So why was this man here? He didn’t fit into the crowd she knew. Perhaps she was misjudging him. He might really be here for the art. It wasn’t like he knew who she was.

     Still, he looked vaguely familiar, as though she’d seen him on the streets of Dome Two. Well. She’d find out soon enough and if he bought a painting, they’d earn some money.

*****

     Malcolm eyed his brunette beauty with trepidation. She looked like she was squaring up for a fight, although she did not appear to recognize him as a former tunnel rat. He blurted out the first thing he thought of, a question that had been bugging him since he’d walked into the White Elephant. Everything else he’d planned on saying to her vanished down a shaft into the deepdown.

     “Miss? Could you tell me the purpose of these paintings?” He waved a hand at the ballroom behind them, crammed with ugly canvases only partly obscured by the gallery-goers milling around them and filling the room with a low buzz of noise.

     Shelby smiled thinly at the stranger. He wasn’t trying to pick her up and better, this was a question she could answer, having just been thinking over it herself. She knew the lecture by heart, having heard it so many times. She launched into her subject about worker exploitation and how art spoke the things that polite society preferred to ignore and how if only the masses understood the purpose of this art, they would embrace it fully and wholeheartedly.

     Shelby found herself running out of words as she realized that this well-dressed, good-looking in a rough-hewn way stranger was looking at her like she was crazy.

     “Anyways, that’s, uh, the rationale,” she finished, trying to project some confidence in a statement she no longer believed in.

     “You really think that?” the stranger asked her. He didn’t appear to believe a single word she had said.

     “Yeah. I mean, sure, why not,” Shelby said and rolled her eyes. “It’s what they tell us at university. All the time. Look, Mr. uh,”

     “Malcolm Cobb.”

     “Mr. Cobb. I’m the only waitress so I’ve got to get back to work.” She curled her lip but not at him. She stared over his shoulder to the gallery-goers discussing everything but the art hanging on the walls and what it represented. “This crowd won’t feed itself.”

     “Do you really believe that dross? Because it doesn’t sound like you do,” Malcolm said. Damn, damn, damn. Where was his prepared speech? Why was he arguing with her?

     Shelby stared at him for a long, pensive moment, meeting his dark brown eyes.

     “I don’t know anymore,” she admitted.

     She’d never see him again so she could be honest in a way that she couldn’t be with her family without being teased and right now, she didn’t think she could tolerate it. She certainly couldn’t admit disbelief in the approved canon at PanU or in front of any member of the Collective.

     He said, “whoever told you that might think it’s true, but I can tell you that real working-class people like pretty, not these tailings. The only even marginally attractive painting here is the one behind you. It’s got some light purple instead of just shades of, uh, dirt. And you think this crowd cares about what goes on in the tunnels? They don’t.”

     Shelby snorted audibly and gave him a good looking over. He was as well-dressed as her father used to be, back when Simon Bradwell was still masquerading as a respected and wealthy investment counselor and a pillar of the Panschin business community.

     “And how would you know? What do you do for a living, all dressed up like you’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life.”

     “I’m the assistant manager of the local branch of the Second National Bank of Panschin.”

     All the anger she’d been tamping down for the last few days roared into life. Shelby stepped up to him to prod his broad chest with her finger and glare up at his face.

     “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. You work for a bank! How could you possibly know anything about how real people struggle? You don’t know what it’s like to scrape by, always worrying about how to make ends meet, which bill to pay, can you make the lease this month.”

     As she spoke, a warning sign started flashing in her brain. Bank. Assistant manager. But not just any bank and not just any assistant manager. The Second National Bank of Panschin, the bank that held the lease on the White Elephant.

     For his part, Malcolm didn’t know what to say, other than to think in amazement, ‘she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know where I came from, my background, growing up and mining for Steelio, where my family still lives. She doesn’t know.’ He still didn’t know her name. He also realized that all she saw was him, and that was all she saw. Unlike everyone else he knew, she saw the man standing in front of her and she only knew what he told her.

*****

     Neza finally got a break in the trickle of visitors. No one was on the street as far as she could peer down it in every direction. She grabbed her basket, heavy with coin (this had been the most successful gallery showing to date), her cane, and went in search of Veronica.

     Fortunately, she didn’t have to search far. Veronica was standing in the atrium, laughing as though Mr. Jones, standing right next to her, had said something funny. It was a joy to see her niece relax enough to enjoy herself, especially considering how aggravating the day had been. She must not have run into Dean yet.

     Veronica caught sight of her aunt determinedly working her way through the crowd.

     “Please excuse me, Mr. Jones. Auntie Neza, do you need a break?” she asked.

     “No, no, we’ve got problems,” Neza replied. She cast a wary look at Mr. Jones.

     Veronica caught her aunt’s glance and said reassuringly, “Mr. Jones already knows about Dean. He spoke with me and he left.”

     Neza was momentarily distracted. “Dean left? Not through the front door or I’d have seen him. No, he’s not the problem.”

     “Neza, please don’t be mysterious,” Veronica said. “And who’s at the front door?”

     Her aunt jerked her head at Mr. Jones who was standing by, his face reserved as ever but with alert, intent eyes.

     “I need a minute, Veronica. We have to talk.”

     “Go ahead, Miss Bradwell,” Mr. Jones said. “I’ll give you some privacy.”

     As soon as Airik stepped away, back turned, Neza whispered to Veronica, “he’s here!”

     “Who? Dean?” Veronica was still confused.

     “Not that fool. Malcolm Cobb!”

     To Neza’s dismay, Veronica looked blank. Then comprehension bloomed across her face.

     “The one Mrs. Grisson warned us about? The assistant manager of the bank? Our lease holder?”

     “Yes! He’s wandering around the White Elephant right now.”

     “Oh, lordy,” Veronica said. She looked down at her tray, the wine in the glasses fizzing as her hands trembled, shaking the glasses. “He told you? What does he look like?”

     “Yes, he introduced himself to me at the front door. He’s big and good-looking and he’s the best dressed man here. Conservative business suit, deep blue with gold piping and brass buttons,” Neza hissed.

     Veronica racked her brains over the gallery-going crowd she’d served, finally placing him. “I gave him a glass of wine,” she said. “He didn’t say anything to me.”

     “You’re a waitress tonight, dear girl,” Neza replied tartly. “That makes you staff so why should a banker talk to you?”

     “I better go find him quick.”

     “I’ve got to get back and mind the door,” Neza said. “Remember, gold piping and buttons on a deep blue suit instead of a ridiculous, tarted-up coverall like Professor Vitebskin is wearing.”

*****

     Shelby wanted desperately to rewind her speech. She had sounded like a fool and quite possibly had offended the man who could throw them out of their house.

     “Don’t throw us out,” she blurted and wanted even more desperately to retract that statement which could have put ideas into Mr. Cobb’s head.

     He gave her another puzzled look. “I wasn’t planning on throwing anyone out. We, I don’t operate that way.”

     “All bankers do!” Shelby flared up. “All you want is money.”

     ‘shut up, SHUT UP, _SHUT UP_!’ she screamed at herself.

     “No, only bankers in melodramas do that,” Malcolm said patiently. Why did everyone think such a thing? “Real bankers have to follow government regulations. There’s not a lot of leeway.” Damn, damn, damn. His Dome Two princess was either a beautiful twit or very naïve. Something struck him.

     “Why are you so concerned anyway? Where do you live? Who are you?”

     “I’m Shelby Bradwell.”

     Long training in never showing his emotions rushed to Malcolm’s aid. Bradwell was a name he knew well, having studied the notorious case in business college. Simon Bradwell had embezzled enough money, ruined enough lives, consorted with criminals (this hadn’t been proven in court although plenty of evidence indicated such activities), and swindled enough businesses to ensure his place for generations as a case study in what to watch out for. The fact that no one had yet discovered where a good chunk of the missing money had gone (the paper trail indicated not all of it went to illegal gambling) added still more interest. His dramatic suicide on the eve of the trial had provided the finishing touch to the lurid story. Best of all, since it was all so recent, there were plenty of living witnesses eager to rehash the case, amplifying every detail in full along with plenty of speculation as to where the missing money was hidden.

     Simon Bradwell had also left behind relatives.

     ‘I should have lied,’ Shelby thought, watching his face closely. ‘But it doesn’t look like he’s heard of us so that’s something.’

     “Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm began.

     “Shelby! What is wrong with you?” Professor Vitebskin called out. “Why the hell aren’t you serving our guests?” He came marching up behind Malcolm Cobb, glaring at Shelby with every step.

     With Shelby firmly relegated to her place, Professor Vitebskin smiled graciously at his well-dressed, potentially lucrative connoisseur of the arts.

     He said, “please forgive Shelby for pestering you. She’s one of my students. Shelby, run along. Lots of hungry gallery-goers are waiting for you so quit neglecting them. I’m Professor Vitebskin, head of the PanU arts department and leader of the PanU Artists’ Collective. And you are?”

     “Malcolm Cobb,” Malcolm answered. It had not escaped his notice how pale Shelby had gone, or how her lips had tightened with hurt fury. “I’m the new assistant manager at the local branch of the Second National Bank of Panschin.”

     ‘Damnation,’ thought Professor Vitebskin. ‘An overdressed, penniless flunky. I have to be polite, since he might have some connections somewhere.’ He said “and which of our wonderful paintings do you favor? Any of them would grace your home and mark you as a patron of the arts.”

     “They’re all horrible,” Malcolm replied, “other than the one behind me with the light purple smears. It has some color and that makes it slightly less horrible.”

     “But still horrible?” Shelby interjected, earning her another scowl from Professor Vitebskin.

     “Yes, it is,” Malcolm said.

     He couldn’t figure out the unspoken conversation Shelby and the professor were apparently having, shooting angry glares at each other. The professor won the struggle and Shelby looked away, at the floor rather than meeting anyone’s eyes. Her shoulders slumped, she made a move to escape.

     “Would you like to tell him, Shelby, or shall I?” Professor Vitebskin asked in his most pleasant voice.

     She stopped in her tracks and came back to angry, resentful life. “I’ll do it, Professor. That painting is mine, Mr. Cobb. It’s back in this corner with all the other rejects, tripe, and hackwork. Mine is, as Professor Vitebskin will tell you, mediocre drivel. The only reason I was allowed to enter a painting was because the White Elephant is my home and my family hosts the gallery showing.”

     She glared up at Malcolm Cobb, daring him to say anything about the quality of her painting. Her eyes were suspiciously bright and her jaw trembled. Then Shelby said, “I have to go. People want food.”

     “Let her go, Mr. Cobb, and I’ll show you far better examples from far more talented artists than our little Shelby,” Professor Vitebskin said. “I have some protégés in our show who have exquisite work that is very reasonably priced and sure to increase in value over the years.”

     Malcolm watched Professor Vitebskin steadily, not moving, not speaking, and waited for him to talk some more. This was a talent that had done him favors in the past as it encouraged whoever he was with to become uncomfortable and fill the empty silence with plenty of revealing words.

     He was rewarded when Professor Vitebskin said, “shall we proceed back to the atrium? I arranged the show in order to provide the viewer with a progression of experiences, each building on the next and culminating in the very best the PanU Artists’ Collective has to offer.”

     “I think,” Malcolm said, “I’ve seen enough. I’ve also seen that I do not like how you treat your students, starting with Miss Bradwell. I have also noticed that the Collective does not believe in staffing its own shows or Miss Bradwell would not be alone other than the young woman handing out wine and the young woman ferrying trays. Your Collective doesn’t support its own show.”

     Professor Vitebskin forced out a smile and a lie. “Those students who were to assist fell ill and could not be here.”

     “And none of their fellows cared enough to step into the breach? Such brotherhood and solidarity,” Malcolm scoffed. “Quite different from what Miss Bradwell was telling me about the goals of the Collective.”

     “You do not understand,” Professor Vitebskin began.

     “I think I do.”

     “Mr. Cobb!” a voice sang out. Malcolm looked past the fuming professor to the much more pleasant sight of the young lady with the tray of mismatched wineglasses bearing down on them.

     “Yes?”

     “What is it now, Miss Bradwell?” Professor Vitebskin asked wearily. Couldn’t she hand out wine someplace else? The White Elephant was packed with gallery-goers all of whom needed a drink. Gods knew he did.

     Malcolm paused. This was also Miss Bradwell? Now that he looked, there was a resemblance. Since Shelby Bradwell was right behind her sister, carrying a reloaded tray of nibbles, he could easily spot the similarities. The answer came to him. Simon Bradwell had two daughters and these two young women must be them. Their connection to the White Elephant eluded him, but that answer would arrive in due time.

     “Another glass of wine, Mr. Cobb?” Veronica said as sweetly as she could. She did not offer a glass to Professor Vitebskin, relying on his often-demonstrated ability to take one for himself.

     She spared a scowl at the professor and added, smiling cheerfully at Malcolm, “alcohol makes the paintings go down much easier.” This earned her a hateful glower in return that should have set her hair on fire.

     “Thank you, Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm said. Shelby offered him a nibble from her fully reloaded tray, trying hard for a placating smile that would erase her earlier insinuations about evil, money-grubbing bankers throwing innocent people out onto the streets to starve.

     “Are you enjoying the show?” Veronica asked.

     “I think the paintings are wastes of paint,” Malcolm answered.

     This statement earned him a glower from Professor Vitebskin who would have left in a huff, but _his_ way was now blocked by that damned philistine from the sticks, Airik Jones.

     “I do have some questions, Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm added. “Why are you hosting this event since you don’t seem to care for it?”

     Veronica thought of the lease stipulations.

     “I am allowed to do this,” she said firmly. “I can host parties whenever I want to, as can any lease-holder.”

     This was not the answer he had been expecting but Malcolm Cobb was nothing if not flexible. If she wanted to debate the terms of her lease, despite not being the person who had signed, he could do that. He probably knew it better than she did.

     “That is true, Miss Bradwell, but then why are you charging admission? And letting in anyone who can pay? That’s not how parties are hosted.”

     “Because it’s a cultural fund-raiser,” Shelby volunteered promptly. “To raise money for the arts.”

     “That’s right,” Veronica hastened to say. “We’re allowed to do that too. Would you like a deviled egg? Shelby, bring them up.”

     She quietly thanked herself for her forethought in keeping a few back when she saw Mr. Cobb’s expression brighten.

     “Yes, thank you.” He offered a warm smile at Shelby as she brought the tray to him.

     Eggs were a rare and expensive treat although how could they afford them when the recent history of the White Elephant’s lease indicated payment difficulties? It was always paid, but more and more often, at the last possible moment.

     “Where did you get them?” he asked, genuinely curious as he picked one from the tray. Eggs were not easy to come by at this time of the year. He took a bite, savoring the rich taste.

     Veronica thought quickly for a plausible, socially acceptable response that would fall within the parameters of a Dome Two lease. Unfortunately, Shelby answered for her.

     “Our neighbor, Mrs. Grisson gave us them from her chickens,” she blurted out. “She lives right down the street.”

     That got Malcolm’s attention. Was Mrs. Grisson his mysterious farmer who provided the vegetables he’d been eating at the Dappled Yak? Agricultural efforts were not acceptable in any of the lease covenants in Dome Two and raising livestock was even less so. He’d have to tread carefully to avoid bringing trouble onto these people.

     Veronica scowled at her sister and said, “they’re _pets!_ Mrs. Grisson keeps chickens as _pets_.”

     Both Malcolm and Professor Vitebskin looked baffled. The professor stopped sidling away, now that the conversation had suddenly gotten interesting and there was a chance that those wretched Bradwell sisters would be tossed out onto their ear.

     “Pets?” Malcolm asked, disconcerted. He understood the concept but he had little experience with it. Cats were pets, expensive ones too. So were little dogs. He knew he wasn’t personally acquainted with anyone who actually owned a pet since the people who could afford one bragged about the subject constantly. “I thought chickens laid eggs?”

     “They’re _useful_ pets,” Veronica said. “Pets are allowed.” Her eyes darted around, hoping for inspiration, and found it in an unlikely source. She smiled widely at the group.

     “People in Barsoom keep chickens as pets,” she said brightly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Jones.”

     She shot a desperate plea to him for aid.

     Airik had been standing back and unobtrusively listening, concerned over what was going to happen to Miss Bradwell. He was unwilling to examine his motives since he would then have to retreat back upstairs and go back to reading briefing papers on safety techniques. Since meeting Veronica Bradwell, they had lost much of their fascination.

     “Mr. Jones is from Barsoom and in town for the Mining Conference,” Veronica added.

     Malcolm was, with tremendous effort, able to stop himself from gaping slack-jawed at Mr. Jones from Barsoom. It couldn’t be. The daimyo of Shelleen at some ridiculous art exhibit in Dome Two? It had to be someone who resembled the man he’d been reading about in the Panschin business journals. Those line drawings were not always accurate; they were often drawn from descriptions or were drawings of drawings or blurry photographs. This man didn’t look nearly the heroic leader his images in the Panschin newspapers implied, but even so, he had that faint air about him of someone who expected people to listen and obey without question.

     For his part, Airik kept his face blank and counted on his normally boring appearance and standard-issue coverall to provide camouflage. It had worked so far and Mr. Cobb didn’t seem to recognize him anymore than that annoying fool Vitebskin had. Having a banker not know him made Airik question the competence and acumen of the businessmen of Panschin more than he already was. He made a mental note to go over every business proposal even more carefully.

     “Yes, people in Barsoom do many odd things. Some do keep chickens as pets,” Airik said after a moment of thought while everyone waited, all eyes upon him.

     It wasn’t a complete lie. In Airik’s experience, however ridiculous a behavior, you could count on someone in Barsoom doing it and telling you all about it, whether you wanted to know or not. He had also observed peasant children in Shelleen carrying around chickens and petting them. Besides, his lie was rewarded with Veronica’s immense smile of relief. She beamed at him and it was like the sun coming out, despite the dome overhead blocking its lifegiving rays. It warmed him and he wanted to see her smile like that at him again.

     Professor Vitebskin, irritated beyond all measure at how total strangers kept leaping to the aid of the Bradwell sisters, said, “I have never heard of anything so absurd. Chickens are agricultural beasts. They are not pets and anyone raising them in any of the domes is cheating on the terms of their lease.”

     Airik frowned at Professor Vitebskin for trying to incite more trouble for Miss Bradwell. He said “chickens are not beasts. They are birds, part of the large class of poultry. You may be a university professor but you seem to have gaps in your knowledge. Large ones.”

     “How dare you insinuate that my education is not the finest,” Professor Vitebskin sputtered.

     “Your own words condemn you,” Airik replied coldly.

     Malcolm’s mind raced. Why would the daimyo of Shelleen be hiding in Dome Two under an assumed name? What if he was wrong? He would make a fool of himself and prove that everyone who belittled him as a jumped-up tunnel rat was correct. If he was right, then he needed to discover why the daimyo of Shelleen was visiting Dome Two and what his connection was to the White Elephant. It could help him in his self-assigned task to demonstrate the value of Dome Two to his superiors in the Second National Bank of Panschin. Free-city or not, he could also avoid the potential world of trouble a daimyo could avalanche down on him. Daimyos and the Four Hundred were supposed to have no authority in the free-cities but anyone with sense knew that wasn’t true.

     And there was Shelby Bradwell, anxiously holding a tray of nibbles for him to choose from. His Dome Two beauty had problems of her own, that was clear enough, and he wasn’t about to make them worse. If he made them better, she might smile at him the way her sister was smiling at this Mr. Jones, supposedly from Barsoom.

     “I suppose,” Malcolm said carefully, “that chickens could be pets.”

     Veronica nodded eagerly. “Yes, absolutely.” Her sister Shelby smiled at him too, also nodding in agreement.

     “You are all insane,” said Professor Vitebskin. “My little dog, Cinnamon, _is_ a pet, the finest one in all of Dome Six. He’s the smartest, most faithful, loyal, handsomest dog you’ll ever meet. Chickens are not pets.”

     “Another gap in your knowledge base,” Airik said coolly, earning him another smile of appreciation from Veronica, and as a bonus, a stifled giggle from her sister.

     “There you are. I been looking for you.” Another voice intruded, one that Veronica recognized at once from the faint, hissing accent.

 


	15. its like theyre haunted by bad luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> or something equally concerning
> 
> Or: The thug arrives at the White Elephant gallery showing.

     Veronica gasped and tensed, a motion that caught Airik’s attention at once. She turned around slowly, hoping she was wrong.

     As she feared, she recognized the man who spoke. It was the same oversized, aggressive-looking man with the shaved head she had spoken to the previous week, the man she had turned away from the White Elephant. As before, he wore a similar neat, plain business suit instead of a coverall. As before, the tailor had not cut this particular suit to minimize his bulk or designed it to make him look harmless. More importantly, the better lighting in the ballroom showed clearly that his tailor definitely wasn’t from Panschin. The oddly cut suit in conjunction with the man’s hissing accent said very plainly ‘I’m not from around here’.

     She wondered when he had arrived and worried more why Neza had allowed him inside the White Elephant. Then she realized Neza hadn’t gotten a clear look at him that evening. She, Veronica, was the only member of the household who had seen his face. Plus, there was the fact that even if Neza had recognized the man, she couldn’t have stopped him.

     His face today was less friendly and reassuring than it had been then.

     “I been looking around and except for all those ugly-shit pictures you got trashing up the place, I like your house,” he said. “I like it a lot. My boss, he likes it too and he wants you to know you’re running out of time to think where you gonna move to.”

     Veronica took a deep breath and said as steadily as she could, “I told you then and I’ll tell you now. This is our home, we are not moving, and I am not subleasing to you or to anyone. I want you to leave.”

     Malcolm went very still hearing this statement. He assessed the stranger, his prohibited demand, his aggressive stance, and how the Bradwell sisters reacted to his presence. Shelby had paled dramatically and had stepped closer to the group, closer to him, and further away from the stranger. Her sister Veronica’s hands were trembling, enough to make the stemmed glasses of wine rattle slightly on the tray and the wine fizz. They could do very little to discourage a threatening stranger in their home.

     He cast a quick glance around the isolated corner of the ballroom they were currently occupying. No one who might be helpful was nearby. Professor Vitebskin, who apparently did know the Bradwell sisters in some capacity, was again edging away. No help would come from that quarter, despite the professor’s use of their house for his horrible paintings.

     Mr. Jones was more interesting. His face had gone very cold and that faint air of expecting to be obeyed had intensified. He didn’t look like a man who regularly indulged in bar brawls, but he wasn’t pretending that nothing was happening either. What was his connection to the Bradwell family that he was willing to be involved?

     It was time to do something. Under normal circumstances, Malcolm had to work at looking non-threatening. Right now, however, he could relax and look like someone you didn’t want to meet in a dark alley – or a well-lit one for that matter – as opposed to someone who could be trusted to safely manage your money.

     Malcolm let his teeth show, flexed his hands, stepped forward and announced, “I’m Malcolm Cobb. I’m the assistant manager of the Second National Bank of Panschin and we hold this lease in trust to the Martian government. We don’t allow subleasing, nor do we condone harassing our tenants. If you attempt to force the leaseholder to sublet, we will throw you out, repossess the property, and we will press charges.”

     The stranger gave Malcolm a good looking over -- dismissing him at first because of his clothes -- but his eyes paused when he saw Malcolm’s callused hands. He hesitated, grinned suddenly, and said, “you’re just an overdressed flunky. My boss gets what he wants and he wants this house.” He leaned forward slightly, looking bigger.

     Airik cast a cool, evaluating glance at Malcolm Cobb. Perhaps he was not incompetent in every area. The banker obviously felt responsible for the properties in his care. He also noticed that Veronica – he caught himself saying her name to himself to savor the sound of it -- was more upset than she had been over her ex-husband, Dean Kangjuon. Dean had threatened her and she’d been afraid, but this situation seemed worse. Airik knew he was operating without enough facts. He needed Elliot’s report on the Bradwells right away. In the meantime, he did know enough to know he didn’t like what he saw.

     “I agree with Mr. Cobb and Miss Bradwell,” Airik said. “This property is not available and you must leave. Now.” He also stepped forward.

     The thug gave him a more dismissive look than he had given the larger banker, although again, Airik noticed, his eyes darted to his hands. Airik’s own hands, while immaculately clean, were not the soft hands of a gentleman. He had spent far too many hours in the field, wielding a shovel or a pickaxe himself and had the calluses to prove it. He rarely had time to wait for someone else to investigate an outcropping or seam and could do the job faster himself rather than explaining what he wanted to a peasant. Even now, as the daimyo, Airik still got his hands dirty when he needed to.

     “That’s real nice of you two gentlemen,” the stranger sneered over the word, “helping out these ladies. Getting something for it in exchange, I hope?”

     He leered openly at Veronica who was appalled and then even more so when he spotted Shelby, hovering anxiously behind her sister. His eyes lit up and he ran his tongue across his lips, as he ran his eyes all over her body.

     “Didn’t see _you_ when I was here last. I’d remember _you_. You will be _a treat_.”

     Shelby gasped audibly and cringed back further at his implied threat.

     “How dare you speak to my sister,” Veronica said icily. “You are disgusting.” She made herself step forward, to better shield Shelby.

     She wished she could throw the loaded tray of wineglasses at him but that meant cleaning up broken glass and plonk, followed by replacing all the glassware. More importantly, it was unlikely to do any good. She would only enrage the man and make him more dangerous. She doubted he would hold still long enough to allow her to slash his throat with a piece of broken glass.

     “That is quite enough from you,” Airik announced, using every bit of bred in the bone aristocratic hauteur at his command. He moved closer to the thug, even while Professor Vitebskin attempted to move further away, hampered by the arrangement of easels.

     Veronica glanced his way. Mr. Jones’ facial features had not rearranged themselves and yet, he looked very different; he looked and spoke like a man used to being obeyed without question.

     Malcolm also shot a glance towards Mr. Jones and rapidly revised his guess upwards in favor of this stranger from Barsoom actually being the daimyo of Shelleen instead of a chance lookalike. This man expected results and people who didn’t meet his expectations suffered for their lapses. Malcolm moved closer to the thug, noticing as he did that Mr. Jones did so too. Interesting.

     Professor Vitebskin, trying hard to look invisible, also noticed and snarled inwardly. Whoever Airik Jones was, he was more than just another mouth-breathing yokel gawking at the big city. It was still doubtful he was from Barsoom; there were plenty of minor, impoverished free-cities on Mars buried out in the provinces just as there were plenty of fourth-tier members of obscure, poverty-stricken demesnes.

     The stranger’s expression never changed. His eyes scanned over Malcolm and Airik again, re-evaluating them as possible threats. He also threw a glance at Professor Vitebskin, openly and contemptuously dismissing him out of hand as being less dangerous than Veronica Bradwell clutching her tray of shivering wineglasses.

     “So your name’s Bradwell,” the stranger said. “I’ll make sure to tell my boss. We’ll be in touch, with you and your delicious sister.” He winked at Shelby, raked his eyes over Veronica again, this time more slowly as if he was reassessing her, and clicked his tongue. “Soon.”

     He swaggered off, pausing only to say to Professor Vitebskin trying to blend into a canvas resting on an easel, “You are a worthless git and your pictures look like shit. Your dog on the other hand is worth something. Little dogs make good eating, good as chickens.”

     Professor Vitebskin blanched and staggered back as if he had been struck.

     Veronica was stricken and didn’t know what to do. She watched the thug stride into the ballroom like he already owned it, her hands shaking and rattling the wineglasses on the tray, but otherwise unable to move or speak. Airik stepped forward and took the tray from her again and the thought flashed through her mind that she wished she could hug him for being so considerate of a near total stranger’s needs.

     The thug had come back. He hadn’t made a mistake coming to the White Elephant. The mistake was hers. She had completely misjudged his intent, dismissed him as a lost stranger albeit an unpleasant one, and pushed the entire unpleasant incident out of her mind. She had been concerned enough to go to the police and then had stopped as though she had done enough. She hadn’t once seriously considered he meant every word he had spoken to her. His boss, whoever _that_ was, wanted the White Elephant and he had every intention of getting it. She had put her little family in harm’s way and she still didn’t know why anyone would want their house.

     She glanced at Airik Jones again. She liked him and he had been considerate and helpful but what did that mean? She knew nothing of him, including his true name since it was doubtful that it was Jones. Events kept proving she couldn’t trust her own intuition at all and that meant she couldn’t trust him.

     “Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm began.

     “Wait,” Airik held up his hand, interrupting him. “Miss Bradwell. This man has been here before?”

     Malcolm revised his guess about Mr. Jones’ true identity upwards again and waited to see what Miss Bradwell would say. She looked ill and her sister, Shelby, didn’t look any better. This might be the reason she had looked so unhappy outside the Dappled Yak, giving him another reason to be helpful.

     Veronica tried to speak, coughed, then croaked out, “yes, a few days ago. I thought he was lost, had the wrong house.” It was humiliating to admit how wrong she had been.

     “I see,” Airik said. “Mr. Cobb. I assume this sort of behavior is both unusual and unacceptable in Panschin?”

     Malcolm laughed harshly. “Illegal as all hell too. What I can’t understand is why he would want _this_ house so badly. There are plenty of mansions in Dome Two going begging. This house is in exceptionally fine condition, but that’s not enough of a reason. The houses in this dome were built to last and the builders understood terraformers would be a constant problem. There isn’t a house within Dome Two that couldn’t be cleaned and restored back to its original condition.”

     “You know this for sure?” Airik asked.

     “I realized the day I was assigned to the local branch that Dome Two was severely undervalued. I did my research. But as I said, there are plenty of empty houses going begging. Discreet squatters don’t get noticed.”

     “I see. So, there is something about this particular house that is unusually desirable.” Airik thought quickly, evaluating the fact that the PanU Artists’ Collective was using a private residence for their gallery show rather than the facilities the university undoubtedly enjoyed.

     “Professor Vitebskin, does this matter involve you?” he asked sharply.

     “What? No!” Professor Vitebskin was still shaken. “That hooligan, that monster, he threatened to _eat_ my precious Cinnamon.”

     Airik gave him a contemptuous look. The professor’s main concern was a dog? Not the safety and wellbeing of the Bradwell family whom he was using for his own purposes?

     Shelby, like her sister, had not known what to say to any of this, other than to agonize over what was going to happen next. The way that goon had looked at her made her feel slimy all over. She seized on a chance to focus on something else, something other than her own safety and security.

     “Professor,” Shelby choked, swallowed, then forced out, “I’m sure he didn’t mean it about Cinnamon. No one would ever do such a thing.”

     Malcolm didn’t say anything; it all depended on how hungry you were. Starvation was a tremendous motivator. He noticed that Airik Jones chose not to reassure Shelby on the same point. Interesting.

     “I think he meant it, about eating the professor’s dog,” Veronica said roughly.

     Professor Vitebskin clutched at his chest again at her words, crumpling his perfectly ironed coverall front into wrinkles that cracked the decorative paint spatters.

     “I think,” Veronica went on, “he meant everything he said last week and he meant every word tonight about taking our house. Shelby, we have to talk to Neza and figure out what to do.”

     “Do?” Shelby cried. “Do? How can we stop someone like that?”

     “You do it with allies, Miss Bradwell,” Airik said.

     “And who would that be?” Veronica snapped at him, all her bitterness rushing out in a wave overpowering her. “We’re pariahs because of dear old dad.” She snatched the tray back from his hands, making the glasses tremble against each other again and the wine fizz.

     “Veronica,” Shelby began, near tears. “Don’t bring that up.”

     She shot a pleading glance at her stricken sister, then one at the banker who held their lease. She was sure if Mr. Cobb knew who they were, he wouldn’t hesitate to throw them out, and he would include auntie Neza, Florence, and Lulu because they were tainted by association.

     Veronica stared down at the tray in her hands and watched the bubbles fizz up to the surface of each glass, breaking with the tiniest of pops, inaudible against the low buzz of mindless chatter filling the ballroom and her pounding heart. She forced herself back to calmness while Airik Jones, her guest, waited patiently for her to regain control. She was able to look back up at him, into his cool, hazel eyes.

     “Forgive me, Mr. Jones,” Veronica said, the words rasping on her dry throat. “I was unpardonably rude to you and you’ve been nothing but helpful to me.”

     Airik allowed himself the smallest of smiles. She still had no idea who he was. He had observed her being courteous with all the gallery-goers, not reserving her good manners for only those people who could benefit her. Veronica Bradwell had even managed to be civil to the very unpleasant Mrs. Wangmo. He liked that. She had managed her former husband, despite his provocations. She didn’t fall apart into hysteria when the thug confronted her. He liked that too. Her grace under pressure compared very well to the young women who were being pushed onto him as being suitable as the next daimyah of Shelleen. He shoved that thought away at once to focus on the problem at hand.

     “Think nothing of it. I suspect that today has been a difficult day as well as the culmination of many difficult days.”

     “Yes, it has.”

     “I’ve been thinking,” Malcolm began.

     He was interrupted again.

     “Sir. I mean, Airik,” Nunzio said, slightly out of breath as he came around the easel, again blocking Professor Vitebskin’s escape route.

     “Saw that big guy come into this corner. He bother you any?”

     “No,” Airik answered calmly. “His interest was in Miss Bradwell’s house.”

     “The house?” asked Nunzio, openly thrown by Airik’s answer. “Why would someone like him care about a house?”

     Malcolm looked over the oversized man wearing a coverall still stiff with newness, observed his concern over Mr. Jones from Barsoom, the trouble with his name, and thought to himself ‘bodyguard’. He was sure now, and only needed to do some research to confirm his guess as to the identity of the man claiming to be from Barsoom. However, that was research that would have to wait. The Bradwell sisters and Neza Molony, who actually held the lease, were of much greater concern.

     “Yes,” Malcolm answered, before Airik Jones had a chance to say something. “I don’t know why this particular house, but that hoodlum and whoever his boss is probably cannot withstand official scrutiny from the bank. Thus, the threat to Miss Bradwell to force her to sublet.”

     Airik revised his own estimate of Mr. Cobb’s mental acuity upwards. “That sounds plausible.”

     Veronica watched in consternation as her guest and her banker discussed her situation as though she wasn’t standing right in front of them. Mr. Cobb, at least, had a legitimate reason to be concerned and could be the ally that Mr. Jones had mentioned. He, on the other hand, was just another visitor to Panschin for the mining conference and would be leaving when the conference was over, never to return. She would never see him again. That was just as well since he clouded her thinking.

     “Excuse me,” Veronica said firmly, taking back control of the conversation. “Mr. Cobb, I appreciate and need the bank’s help in this matter. I have no idea why that thug wants the White Elephant. It’s just a house but it is our house. I will speak to the police in the morning and anything the bank can do to investigate further would be most helpful.”

     “Mr. Jones,” she went on, turning to Airik. “I appreciate your wanting to help. I do. But you are my guest so my problem is not your concern.” She stepped closer to him, gazing up at his cool hazel eyes, something that was becoming easier and easier to do.

     “You’re here for the conference and you need to focus on that task. Your job probably depends on it.”

     She smiled up at him. “Thank you for your help. We’ll be fine.”

     Words failed Airik again, looking into Veronica’s face and wanting to fall into her dark, luminous eyes. His thoughts were a jumble. She didn’t need his help. She didn’t want his help. She had no idea who he was and she wasn’t going to use a stranger, squeeze out what she needed, and then toss the remains aside. Unlike his family, she didn’t expect him to rescue her and solve all her problems. Unlike everyone else he had met since becoming the daimyo of Shelleen, she didn’t _want_ something from him _,_ despite her obvious needs. It was a deeply unfamiliar situation to see someone who could use assistance, yet who didn’t demand his immediate attention. A thought struck him, allowing him speech.

     “Nonetheless, Miss Bradwell, I am here and will remain through the conference. If I see the need, I will step in.”

     Veronica thought about being alone in the house, with only her sister, her aunt, Florence and Lulu. Lulu, if she wasn’t caught unawares, could defend herself but she still couldn’t tackle that oversized thug singlehanded in any kind of a fair fight. The rest of them, well. Any conflict would end badly. She shuddered inwardly at the thought of her elderly aunt confronting a man twice her size and a third her age. What would Neza do; threaten him with her cane? The police, while helpful, couldn’t permanently station a beat patrolman in front of the house. They would wait until after the crime had occurred to arrive in force. Having Mr. Jones and his cousins in the house, especially Nunzio, would be useful while she was sorting out the mess her life had suddenly become.

     She smiled up at him, something that was becoming very easy to do. “That would be lovely. But only if there’s a need. You do have your job to look out for.”

     Airik thought of running Shelleen’s day to day affairs, the uneasy collaboration with the other demesnes in the quad, the restive city council of Purnell, the Martian government looking over his shoulder, the immense task of managing the Red Mercury lode, his peasants who were convinced he was bringing a new golden age to Shelleen, and the even larger task of managing his family’s expectations.

     “Yes, so I do.”

     “Mr. Cobb,” Veronica said, turning back to her other problem. “Would you stop by the police station on your way home and register a complaint? It would have more force coming from you as a representative of the bank.”

     “I had already planned on doing so, Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm answered. “I will also alert my supervisor, Mr. Wong. Something is happening that he should be aware of.”

     He did not make any move to leave promptly on those important errands, remaining right where he stood.

     ‘Darn it,’ Veronica thought. Mr. Cobb wasn’t taking her hint and leaving right away for the police substation. The only good thing about being threatened in front of the bank representative was that he had been provided with a much bigger problem to manage than her possible lease violations. Vegetable gardening for cash and renting out rooms as a bed and breakfast paled in comparison to someone trying to illegally occupy bank property and harass the rightful tenants.

     “Nunzio,” Airik said, interrupting her thoughts. “Would you take a walk around the White Elephant, interior and exterior?”

     “Already planning on it, uh, Airik,” Nunzio answered.

     ‘Definitely a bodyguard,’ Malcolm thought. ‘One who’d been told to use Mr. Jones’ first name to deflect attention and who’d been told to stay in the background to further avoid notice.’

     ‘Definitely a servant of some kind,’ Veronica thought. ‘Nunzio expected to say ‘sir’ and he’s having trouble managing a first name.’

     ‘I thought they were cousins?’ Shelby thought. ‘So why is he having trouble with Mr. Jones’ first name?’

     ‘What is wrong with these people,’ Professor Vitebskin thought. ‘Don’t they care about the threat to my dog? And the show! Oh Gods, what will happen to the art?’

     “Miss Bradwell,” the Professor said firmly. “The show. We cannot possibly pull the paintings out. You know that many of our patrons need time to make a carefully considered decision as to which painting to purchase for their home. However, the paintings are at risk. They might be stolen! How are you planning on protecting them?”

     All eyes swiveled to Professor Vitebskin and he glared right back at them. He knew what was important.

     Veronica opened her mouth, thought better of what she wanted to say, then decided to say it anyway.

     “Professor Vitebskin, the paintings will be fine. No one’s going to steal anything so hideous, just like no one’s going to buy any of the horrible things.”

     “They could be vandalized, Miss Bradwell. Vandalized,” Professor Vitebskin shot back.

     “How would you be able to tell?” Airik asked coolly. “Every piece here could only benefit from having more paint thrown onto the canvas at random.”

     Malcolm caught Shelby’s eye and flashed a lightning quick smile at her and was rewarded with a quick smile of her own. She might be naïve, but even under the stress she had a sense of humor.

     “I’m sure they’ll be safe, Professor Vitebskin,” Shelby said soothingly. “Just like Cinnamon will be safe.” She smiled at the professor brightly.

     “Shelby,” Professor Vitebskin said. “You are naïve.”

     Veronica watched her sister’s face fall, held the tray of wineglasses very firmly to keep from throwing them at the Professor, and said, “Professor, one more nasty word from you about my sister and I will vandalize those ugly pieces of dross myself with a kitchen knife.”

     “You wouldn’t dare,” Professor Vitebskin said.

     “Professor,” Veronica started to say.

     “Professor Vitebskin! There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” An older, noticeably well-fed gentleman -- luxuriously upholstered in an extreme version of the latest fashion -- approached the little group in the corner.

     Veronica didn’t know who he was but Professor Vitebskin did. He had pasted on a blandly sour smile that went nowhere near his eyes. Interestingly, Mr. Cobb was wearing the same expression. Mr. Jones looked as reserved as ever. Shelby shrugged at her sister and whispered “I don’t know who he is but he’s better than another threat to us from some oversized goon.”

     “Mr. Burgess. What a pleasure. I had hoped to see you tonight at the show,” Professor Vitebskin said.

     “And you are, Vitebskin, you are. I have to say, I’m getting bored with this tiresome genre of paintings you keep pushing. Don’t you have something new?” Mr. Burgess said. “Something I and everyone else haven’t seen a dozen times over?”

     Professor Vitebskin’s face tightened. “I assure you, Mr. Burgess, what you see tonight is the wave of the future.”

     “Not any more,” Mr. Burgess responded with a dismissive wave of his hand. He wore a gemmed ring on each finger and they glinted in the light. “Say, I know you.” He pointed to Airik Jones.

     “I don’t believe so,” Airik answered calmly. So far, no one had so it seemed an appropriate response.

     “Yes, I do! You were that rude rickshaw hauler who brought me here and overcharged me for the ride. What are you doing stinking up an art gallery?” Mr. Burgess said, his face darkening with righteous fury.

     “Mr. Burgess,” Veronica said sharply. “Mr. Jones is my guest from Barsoom, here for the Biennial Mining Conference. How dare you accuse a respectable businessman of behaving badly.”

     “It’s quite true,” Malcolm Cobb added. “I met Mr. Jones earlier this evening. He is not a rickshaw hauler.”

     “Oh. You. I didn’t know you knew anything about art, Cobb,” Mr. Burgess replied, curling his lip in a sneer.

     “I’m learning, Mr. Burgess,” Malcolm replied, managing to keep his voice perfectly civil despite wanting to take what was left of his glass of wine and throw it at Mr. Burgess, followed by breaking it and slashing his throat with the broken edge. “I am taking advantage of the amenities such as a show like this one.”

     “So, you’re enjoying your stay here in Dome Two? You’ll be stuck here forever if I have anything to say about it,” Mr. Burgess said, with a happy, nasty edge to his voice and a vindictive sparkle in his eye.

     Mr. Burgess turned his attention back to his original target.

     “Vitebskin, I am very disappointed in this show. I am even more disappointed in who you allowed into the show.” His eyes flicked over to Airik Jones and then to Malcolm Cobb. “Have you no standards, man? And what’s this about you abusing young Philpott?”

     Veronica got there first, while the professor franticly tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t cause him trouble later on. What little patience she had left was fraying to its ragged ends. She snapped, “Reyansh Philpott assaulted my great aunt, refused to work for the greater good of the Collective and was rude to everyone in the White Elephant. Professor Vitebskin was responsible enough to point out the error of his ways. If you, Mr. Burgess, have a problem in my home or with my guests, you may leave it at once.”

     “A likely story! Young Philpott is a gentleman. And just who are you?”

     “Veronica Bradwell.”

     A flash of emotion showed in his eyes and then Mr. Burgess’s face darkened still further. “Bradwell as in that ne’er-do-well, thieving conman Simon Bradwell?”

     Veronica stood her ground.

     “Yes, Mr. Burgess. That Simon Bradwell. And no matter what my father may have done, his actions do not allow you to intrude into my home or criticize my guests or the gallery show or any of the people who worked so hard on it.”

     A slow, evil smile crawled across Mr. Burgess’s face, making itself comfortable in familiar territory. “Your home? We’ll see about that. Cobb. Look into the lease at once. Make sure every and I do mean every single clause is being adhered to. To the letter.”

     Malcolm said, in a carefully neutral tone, “I had already investigated the lease on the White Elephant when I discovered it was part of the local branch’s portfolio of properties. Miss Bradwell is not only in complete compliance with every clause, she maintains the property in immaculate condition, and she is a staunch supporter of the local arts community. All of our tenants should do as well by the bank as Miss Bradwell.”

     Mr. Burgess stopped smiling. “Trying to be proactive?” The smile slunk back. “If you’re lying, Cobb, and I will check, your career with the Second National is over.” The smile got wider. “We may even prosecute.”

     Malcolm clenched his fists, concealing the motion behind his back.

     “Well?”

     “I am not lying, Mr. Burgess. As you will discover.” Malcolm reminded himself of his other, personal project. He was making slow progress but there were hints he was digging in the correct area. The knowledge strengthened him, allowing him to show Burgess a bland face instead of a snarl.

     “What is your position with the Second National Bank of Panschin?” Airik asked coldly.

     Mr. Burgess turned on him.

     “And what the hell does a gouging rickshaw hauler need to know about that?”

     Airik stared down Mr. Burgess in icy silence, taking in every detail in the man in front of him and as he did so, Mr. Burgess became uneasy. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

     “Well?” he demanded, trying to take back control from this uppity nonentity and remind him of his place in the hierarchy of Panschin.

     “Mr. Burgess,” Veronica interrupted firmly, gripping the tray of wineglasses more tightly so they didn’t rattle against each other and she didn’t throw the tray at him. “You claim to be a gentleman. Gentlemen are never rude to anyone, particularly those persons who are lower than them on the social hierarchy. A gentleman is supposed to set the example by his behavior and you sir, I am sorry to say, are not living up to that standard.”

     Mr. Burgess turned from Airik back to an easier, safer target.

     “And how would the likes of you know?”

     “Perhaps you have forgotten what the Bradwell family once was. It’s understandable,” Veronica smiled smoothly. “You are getting up in years and time has such a way of flying by.”

     Mr. Burgess began to sputter as she continued. “I know my father did not live up to the ideal standard but he, despite his criminal activities, was never rude to anyone. Unlike you. Do leave, Mr. Burgess, or I shall have to call the police and have you removed. I know you wouldn’t want the embarrassment.”

     Airik gave her an approving look. “My cousin,” -- he waved a hand towards Nunzio who looked appraisingly at Mr. Burgess -- “and I will help you on your way to the front door.”

     Mr. Burgess noticed, for the first time, the hulking man who had appeared at Mr. Jones’s side and decided to pay attention to the prickling on the back of his neck. It was intensifying. He still had some things to say, ensuring the fools standing in front of him understood exactly who was in charge.

     “Miss Bradwell, I will investigate your handling of your lease personally. If you give me one reason, no matter how minor, to throw you out on the street, I will. Vitebskin, you disappoint me and I’ll make sure the university and the board of trustees know it. Cobb, your career is on the line. And as for you, Jones, if that is really your name, I will personally contact the rickshaw hauler’s guild and complain to the Guildmaster about your unacceptable conduct.”

     He spun on his heel and stalked away, his stiff back radiating fury at being thwarted.

     Shelby broke the silence.

     “Mr. Burgess really likes algae dumplings.”

     All eyes turned to her.

     “What?” Veronica said. This was the dreadful ending of a dreadful day, she thought it couldn’t get worse, and now her sister had lost her mind. “He could stand to lose a quite a few stone, but what?”

     Shelby giggled, a light happy sound with an underlying edge of hysteria bubbling away and threatening escape. The tray in her hands shook. “He’s got algae down his front from where a dumpling burst when he bit into it. He must not have noticed because the smears blend in with the leaves on his floral suit. And from the amount of green drips, well, he ate a lot of dumplings.”

     As she giggled, unable to stop herself, Airik thought ‘Aha. So that _was_ pond scum inside those dough balls.’

     Nunzio thought ‘Good thing I only ate one.’

     Malcolm thought ‘she’s observant enough to find something funny in bad circumstances.’

     ‘Dimwitted,’ Professor Vitebskin thought, ‘even if she can use her eyes.’

*****

      “Hey, some service over here please?” one of the gallery-goers called out.

     Veronica seized her chance to escape and smiled graciously at the little group. “Duty calls. Shelby, back into the fray.”

     Her sister was still giggling nervously, the tray of nibbles shaking precariously, and waiting on guests might preoccupy her enough to let Shelby regain her equanimity. All the while Veronica thought ‘damn, damn, damn. That thug came back. What am I going to do? And Mr. Cobb showing up. Why can’t he go to the police station right now? Get someone here while that goon is waiting to be arrested? And Mr. Burgess.’

     The Bradwell sisters waded back into the crowd, leaving Airik Jones, Malcolm Cobb, and Professor Vitebskin to eye each other, with Nunzio Jones hovering discreetly in the background.

     Airik tipped his head at Nunzio who responded promptly, listened to his low-voiced request, and then melted back into the crowd.

     Malcolm watched their byplay, hoping it meant Mr. Jones was having his otherwise wasted bodyguard make a thorough inspection of the White Elephant, inside and out.

     As soon as the hulking bodyguard left, Malcolm said smoothly, “have you been in Panschin long, Mr. Jones?”

     “A few days,” Airik replied. “The conference has been interesting. How do you know Mr. Burgess, if I may ask? I can guess that Professor Vitebskin knows Mr. Burgess through university connections.”

     Malcolm scowled at the name as did Professor Vitebskin.

     “Mr. Burgess is a vice-president at Second National in charge of various outreach programs,” Malcolm said.

     Airik thought this over. Malcolm Cobb was apparently low-level so it perhaps wasn’t a surprise he didn’t recognize the daimyo of Shelleen. Even the professor might be excused on the basis of being an artist and so not capable of being well-read on current events. But for a vice-president of a large institution to not know? Not a competent man, then. Despite his high-level position, Mr. Burgess also recognized and actively disliked Malcolm Cobb, another interesting and perhaps useful fact.

     “He’s a pushy, pretentious tin-pot dictator,” Professor Vitebskin growled to both men. “He’s a buffoon who likes to throw his weight around. He’s a bully who belittles people who can’t fight back.” The professor thought of Reyansh Philpott and the damage control he was going have to do back at PanU over the incident and closed his eyes in pain. Philpott, that mazhor, had worked both fast and competently, skills he had never previously demonstrated in his studies.

     He turned his back on Jones and Cobb and strode away, disappearing into the chattering crowd, thinking all the while on whose ass he would have to kiss to make this new problem go away.

     “Takes one to know one,” Malcolm said dryly.

     “Yes, it does,” Airik said.

     “If you would excuse me, Mr. Jones. Enjoy your stay in Panschin. And I did mean everything I said.”

     “As did I, Mr. Cobb.”

     Malcolm walked away, back into the crowd of gallery-goers, thinking hard. Shelby Bradwell, his Dome Two beauty, needed him. Something very strange was going on in Dome Two that a ruffian was trying to take over a particular house when houses went begging on every street. And how and why was the daimyo of Shelleen involved? That last thought brought a cold gleam to his eyes. Mr. Burgess might be the man who was ruined by running afoul of a powerful, well-connected daimyo and it couldn’t happen to a more deserving sack of shit.

     Airik watched Mr. Cobb work his way around the easels, an apparent goal in mind based on how he maneuvered through the obstacle course they presented. He considered the character of the banker thoughtfully, based on what little he had observed. Would this low-level banker do anything to assist Miss Bradwell? Talking to the police would be easy. Standing up to the likes of Mr. Burgess who could destroy him was another matter entirely. He himself could, possibly, put a word in the right ear about Burgess. The four daimyos in Panschin’s quad all enjoyed extensive interests and holdings within the free-city. But that would mean revealing his whereabouts and breaking his privacy, the only thing that was letting him get the work done he needed to do for his own demesne. Moreover, each of those daimyos -- Atto, Maerski, Davis, and Fuziwara -- would expect significant concessions from him in exchange. The same would be true of any of the mine owners in Panschin. They would insist on repayment.

     He owed Veronica Bradwell nothing, other than the room fees he had already paid.


	16. plots, plans, and other words that start with 'p'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the art show at the White Elephant. 
> 
> (Airik isn't very good at pretending to not be a daimyo, but that's okay, because no one notices anyway.)

     Veronica led her sister through the crowd of outstretched hands and gaping mouths– were all these people bottomless pits needing to be stuffed with nibbles and plonk? – both of them dispensing treats as needed. As soon as they were out of the ballroom, ostensibly headed to the kitchen to refill the trays, she took a quick glance around and herded her sister into the alcove between the winding circular staircases to the second floor. Professor Vitebskin’s protégé’s painting loomed down over them, ignored by everyone, and she hoped its off-putting presence would ensure a moment of privacy.

     “Shelby,” Veronica said sharply, getting right to the point. “I know this has been a terrible, terrible day, but you have to get hold of yourself. We both have to.”

     Shelby glared at her sister. “I am not going to get hysterical, if that’s what you’re implying.”

     “Are you sure? The way you were giggling back there? We can’t afford to panic.”

     “I am not stupid. I am not a child. But tell me, please!” Shelby glared at her sister harder. “Exactly what can we afford to do?”

     Veronica looked away, struggling for an answer to satisfy her sister and herself.

     “I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something. We’ll think of something. You, me, auntie Neza, Lulu, and Florence.”

     “Lulu and Florence may not want to get involved,” Shelby said. She didn’t want to bring up the unpleasant possibility but it had to be said. “They’re not family.”

     Veronica scowled up at the painting looming over them, a study in shades of dreck. The fading light falling through the open skylight from the dome above turned what had been just another ugly painting into one that was dismal and foreboding. The flickering oil lamps made the effect still more ominous. She made the conscious decision to not take it as an omen but as an example of how not to paint an attractive, saleable picture.

     “They may not be blood relatives but look how our blood relatives treat us. I’ll take my chances. And if Florence or Lulu decide to abandon us, well, we’ll let them make that choice.”

     “But do you have any ideas?” Shelby persisted. “I don’t. Nobody at university will help me. They wouldn’t even talk to me tonight.”

     “Yep. I saw that,” her sister replied with a moue of distaste. “Pathetic sods, the lot of them. But we’ve got some decent money thanks to Mr. Jones renting out rooms for the mining conference. And Mr. Cobb knows about the thug and he’ll worry about that situation a lot more than about my renting out a room or market gardening.”

     “If he helps us,” Shelby said, her voice much lower. “That gross Mr. Burgess didn’t like him at all, even less than he liked us. I wonder why?”

     “Who knows,” Veronica said. “I doubt if either of them will tell us. Anyway, the evening will be over soon and we made, looking at the crowd, some money there too. I’ll talk to Neza, Florence, and Lulu, and let them know what happened.”

     She set her empty tray down on the floor and hugged her sister. “We’ll figure out something. Maybe Mrs. Grisson will rent us rooms after Mr. Burgess or that awful goon kick us out.”

     Shelby made a face, thinking of Mrs. Grisson’s regular tenants, thought better of it since none of them despised the Bradwells for existing, and sighed. “Would she have space?”

     “Maybe. And if she doesn’t, she’ll know who in Dome Two will. I’ll go talk to Florence and Lulu. No point in worrying Neza even more just yet. I’ll tell her in the morning after she’s slept.”

     “Why is Neza worried? Oh, right. Mr. Cobb.”

     “And Dean showed up too,” Veronica replied with a grimace. “At least he was easy to get rid of.”

     “Dean showed up?” Shelby asked. “I never saw him.”

     “He only wanted to get me involved in some silly get-rich-quick scheme. I wouldn’t listen to him,” Veronica said. “As if I would do such a thing after dear old dad.”

     Both girls looked away into the distance, each wearing a similar expression of pain, grief, and anger.

     Veronica broke the silence with another sigh. “Start by rearranging the trays of nibbles in the ballroom to freshen them and then refill only as needed. I don’t want to run out and if anything’s left, well, that’s breakfast. I’ll talk to Lulu first and then Florence. If you see or hear anything, tell me at once.”

     “Hey, I just thought of something,” Shelby said with a sudden grin. “Mr. Burgess and that awful thug might have to fight it out over who gets to keep the White Elephant.” She laughed at the mental picture.

     Veronica laughed too. “Mr. Burgess outweighs him so it might not be a totally unfair fight. If he fell on top of the thug, he’d smother him for certain. Anyways, keep an eye out.”

     “Got it,” Shelby said. She picked up her empty tray tiredly, pasted on a fake smile, and headed back into the ballroom. She thought of waiting tables at the Dappled Yak. It had suddenly become very likely that she’d be working there or some similar place. Here, while the gallery-goers had eaten and drunk enough to feel they got their money’s worth, none of them would throw a few coins her way for waiting on them.

     Already a few people were staggering towards the front door, having swilled down plenty of plonk to ease the pain of viewing the art. They faced a long, dark walk back to the business district and the transtube station. Shelby knew, from previous shows, that most of the Dome Two rickshaw haulers and sedan-chair men would be conveniently stationed out on the street for just such emergencies. The darker and later it got, the more they charged and they got their fares too, from nervous, drunk out-of-domers. She’d have to remember to tell Veronica that one of them might have seen something while trolling the streets for passengers.

     The chance of losing her home again made her problems at fitting in at PanU pale by comparison. She had gotten used to Dome Two and it did have its points. She would never admit to it, but in some ways, Dome Two was more beautiful, green, and vibrant with life than Dome Six ever was. Dome Two had real parks and anyone could visit them without special permission. You regularly saw real birds flitting about and you heard them singing. There were real squirrels in the quad at PanU, fat ones who begged for scraps from anyone with food. Dome Six had nothing like that. Every animal there, other than the rats, was a coddled pet. The birds were all in cages. Parks were open only to their paying members.

     She headed back towards the ballroom and hovering just inside the door, as if he’d been waiting for her, was Mr. Cobb.

     He strode up to her confidently, as though she couldn’t possibly not want to talk to him. And of course, Shelby knew, she had to. Where did he find the confidence he was radiating after Mr. Burgess’s implied threat? Maybe, she thought with an inward shudder, he’d already decided to back the clear winner. Even so, if there was the slightest chance he would take their side against Mr. Burgess, she had to seize that opportunity. The police and the bank would both be very interested in keeping out lawbreaking thugs. Lease issues were a different matter, one where the police would favor the bank and not them.

     She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen him before, out and around in Dome Two. He did look attractive, especially compared to Mr. Burgess. Malcolm Cobb’s suit was deep blue, conservative, well-fitted to accentuate his broad chest and shoulders, his complete lack of a vast paunch, and it did not, unlike Mr. Burgess’s much more fashionable attire, remind her of the extravagantly floral drapes in PanU’s cafeteria. She had to stifle a smirk. It was possible Mr. Burgess needed the cafeteria drapes to make his clothes as that was the only way he’d get enough fabric to wrap around himself. They also camouflaged his eating habits.

     Shelby realized something else. As awful and lewd as that yahoo had been, threatening her and her sister over the White Elephant, the threat from Mr. Burgess was more real. He had the law on his side and Veronica had broken the lease stipulations. Either way, they’d end up on the street but if criminals invaded, the Bradwell family would have legal help and public sympathy. If the bank threw them out, they’d get no help from anyone. Malcolm Cobb was right to be confident in his approach to her since he was their only chance at defeating Burgess.

     “All right then,” Shelby murmured to herself. “All right then.”

*****

     “Miss Bradwell.” Malcolm smiled down at Shelby. It was so easy to do and now he knew her name. She was even more beautiful than he had believed and the effect was not wearing off. If anything, her allure was getting stronger. He was almost close enough to touch her, an enticing thought that he firmly squashed.

     “Hello again, Mr. Cobb,” Shelby replied. She lifted up the empty tray. “I’ve got to rearrange the nibble trays in the ballroom. Did you want something?”

     She winced inwardly. Gods below, but she sounded like a fool. It felt like her brain shut off when he spoke to her, allowing any piece of drivel to surface while she stared at his jawline, the breadth of his shoulders, and his strong, well-shaped hands. It was a sure bet he wanted something; the same thing every other man wanted from her. And now, with Mr. Burgess’s threat to him and to them, he had even less incentive to treat her with respect.

     “I thought about what you said, about the purpose of the PanU Artists’ Collective,” he answered, taking Shelby off-guard. She’d been expecting a lewd proposition she’d have to refuse as tactfully as she could manage.

     “Yes, about that,” Shelby said, trying to remember exactly what silliness she had spouted. It made her cringe inwardly, comparing it to the real problems bearing down on her. No wonder Lulu and everyone else had been so dismissive.

     He didn’t give her much time to think. “Do you want to know how real working-class people feel about art? You and the other students in the Collective? I can show all of you.”

     Shelby blinked, trying to resort her thoughts. He wasn’t going to ask for her favors?

     “Uh, could you please explain?”

     Malcolm had thought hard over how to approach his Dome Two beauty for the second time. He knew how he reacted to her, but nothing about her as a person or what she would think of him. Was she the kind of woman he hoped she was? Before Simon Bradwell had leaped so spectacularly down a mine shaft, dragging his family with him into ruin, Shelby would have been brought up as a princess in Dome Six. He knew, oh how well he knew, how those girls sneered at his background, his family, his friends, and how little they thought of the labor that made them and the free-city of Panschin rich. To their way of thinking, he was made to be played with. Playing with them in return was enjoyable, no question, but at the end of the day, what he wanted for himself was immaterial. The resentment ate at his soul.

     He had already observed that Shelby Bradwell could be naïve and inexperienced, hence her belief in and loyalty to the Collective’s ridiculous way of thinking. They had taken her in as one of their own and he knew very well how much acceptance meant, even when it included daily, petty humiliations. Or she could be a worse snob than them all. She had already fallen so far that falling further was completely unacceptable. She’d fight and claw her way back to social acceptance and she wouldn’t be able to do that with him. And worse, what would she think of his family?

     If Shelby was who he hoped her to be, she would accept them as human and not as dirty-handed tunnel rats who never saw the light of day. But he didn’t know. She would have to show him. He would have to take the risk. Would she be worth what that wanking slime Burgess could do to him?

     He took the plunge.

     “I can take you and anyone else who wants to come along down into the tunnels.”

     Shelby’s eyes opened wide at the fearful thought of going underground. She didn’t like going into the White Elephant’s basement levels. The transtubes were always unpleasant. This would be deeper down.

     “Into the mining tunnels?” she asked hesitantly.

     “No, you’re not crew. Miner’s housing. The Steelio warren to be precise.”

     She nearly dropped the tray. “People _live_ underneath?”

     Shelby wanted to bite her tongue all over again. She knew there was housing in the tunnels; it was what Florence and Lulu had escaped from and why they were living here. Warrens sounded awful; too many people crammed into too little space in the dark.

     He was looking at her like she was stupid again. No, not stupid. Like he couldn’t quite believe she didn’t know. Like she was naïve.

     “Yes, they do. Didn’t you know that?”

     Malcolm watched her face carefully. She had paled and her breathing had quickened. The knuckles of her hands had whitened where she clutched the tray. He had guessed, from his observations, that every emotion she felt showed on her expressive face. It did now, proving he was correct. She was afraid.

     Shelby swallowed audibly. “I knew. I, I just don’t like to think about it. All that weight of rock overhead.”

     “You get used to it,” he said gently. “It’s perfectly safe.” He paused, watching her chest raise and fall with her quickened breathing. She was visibly trying not to tremble. He tore his eyes away, back up to her face.

     “I’ll keep you safe.”

     She couldn’t answer. He wanted to take her into the tunnels deep underground. The housing tunnels were far deeper than the basement levels, deeper than the PCC classrooms, deeper than the transtube tunnels that connected the domes. Many of the housing tunnels were repurposed mining tunnels, once the veins of ore had been stripped out leaving nothing behind of value other than echoing, ink-black, airless caverns. The tunnels formed a complex, three-dimensional maze underneath Panschin. Even people who knew a section well could get lost forever in another part of the maze.

     The weight of the dome overhead that her sister found so oppressive had never bothered Shelby. It kept out the weather and kept the city, so close to Northernmost, safe from the harsh, seemingly endless winter. But going underneath, even when the tunnel was well-lit like the transtube station, was different. She could feel the weight of millions of tons of rock weighing overhead, waiting to collapse and crush her and anyone else unfortunate enough to be caught. Cave-ins did happen sometimes. Not everyone trapped in one survived long enough to be rescued. You could suffocate while they were digging you out, lying there in agony with bones smashed into gravel and torn, bleeding limbs that sprayed your blood into the unforgiving rock.

     She had to steady herself, leaning up against the heavily carved molding that framed the wide entrance to the ballroom. Its ceiling was so high, the room so spacious, lined with windows that let in the light from outside and provided a view of the wider world. The atrium overhead opened to the dome high above, letting in light and air. The White Elephant was airy and open in a way a tunnel could never be. There was color, movement, sound, and life. The tunnels below were bored through dead rock and that rock hated the life intruding into it.

     Shelby knew her fears were irrational and she had learned to not say anything. Going underground was normal in Panschin. It was part of everyday life and so nothing to think about at all. But when she went underground, it was all she could think about.

     Malcolm watched her reactions carefully. If she refused, it wasn’t because she despised the people who lived and toiled in the tunnels. It was because she was afraid of the deepdown. Not everyone in Panschin could live or even travel underground. There were those who got surface sickness and it looked like Shelby Bradwell might be one of them.

“Miss Bradwell,” he said. “If you can’t, don’t worry about it.”

     His words did not reassure her, as she stared into the ballroom of her home. If she didn’t go with him, what would he do to her and her sister and her aunt? Shelby knew her sister fretted over the lease stipulations, gauging carefully what she thought she could get away with and what she couldn’t to keep their household afloat. Mr. Cobb was responsible for their compliance. Mr. Cobb had that awful cave troll, Burgess, pressuring him. Would he stand up to that fat, messy slob who wore a suit made of floral drapes for tenants he didn’t know without a damn good reason?

     She couldn’t move again. She just couldn’t. The move from Dome Six had been traumatic enough. They might not find another home inside the now familiar, safe Dome Two again. Shelby had learned where everything was. She had a place, even if it wasn’t always happy. She was aboveground in Dome Two. There was space and air and light and sound and color. There was room to run, room to escape and hide in, room to sit quietly and sketch brilliant flowers in the sunshine undisturbed. The next step down from Dome Two was the tunnels. She was letting her fears run away with her again. She knew it. She was better than this.

     She forced herself upright, not relying on the wall to support her. She was not a child.

     “I would like to try,” Shelby said. Her voice didn’t shake and she was proud of that show of strength.

     Malcolm heard her, watched the determination settle on her face, and smiled. Shelby Bradwell might be the woman he hoped she was.

     “What is your schedule tomorrow?” he asked.

     Shelby wanted to shake all over again. Tomorrow! That gave her no time at all to steel herself but it also meant she didn’t have much time to stew over her situation.

     “I finish my classes by 2PM,” she answered. “I’ll be in the art department at PanU. Lots of other members of the collective will still be there, too.”

     “Good. I’ll be there. I’ll take everyone who wants to come down with us into the Steelio warrens.”

     “Hey girlie! You with the tray,” a voice slurred out from the ballroom. “Is there anything left to eat?”

     Shelby gripped her tray firmly. Would this evening never end? She looked up and Mr. Cobb’s eyes were sympathetic. He turned and gazed into the ballroom at the speaker with open contempt, then turned back to her, his expression much warmer.

     “I know you have work to do, Miss Bradwell, so I won’t keep you. I’m on my way to the police station next, after I take a look all around the block.” Malcolm smiled down at her and was rewarded with a tiny, real smile. “Don’t worry about Burgess. Despite behaving like a banker in a melodrama, he’s not as powerful as he thinks he is.”

     “Really?” A flash of hope speared through her, encouraging her that things might not be as bad as she feared. Malcolm Cobb might help them, if she was friendly enough. It would be much more pleasant to be friendly with him than it would be with either the gross Burgess or that crude goon.

     “Yes. Burgess has his weaknesses. I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” he said.

     “Tomorrow,” Shelby said and she fled into the ballroom, where, as she suspected and Malcolm Cobb must have noticed, there were still plenty of nibbles on the table trays. This drunk guest wanted them served to him instead of having to lurch across the room on very unsteady legs.

     ‘Maybe the fool drank so much the tables were moving on their own,’ she thought uncharitably as she provided him with algae dumplings and blocks of yeast while he tried to leer down her unaccommodating neckline. She never liked leaving the top few buttons open on her coverall and lewd fools like this one were one of her reasons. If Mr. Cobb had tried for an eyeful, he had been exceptionally discreet.

*****

     Veronica noted with relief that more gallery-goers were leaving and emptying out the house. There would be food left over for tomorrow and a few opened, but unfinished bottles of wine. She’d have a glass or two herself, once the house was locked up tight.

     The thug had not come back. Neza had seen nothing, and she admitted, she hadn’t particularly noticed him when he came in, other than he didn’t look like the usual guest. She thought he had not been alone, a worrisome thought.

     Neither Florence nor Lulu had seen anything of the thug or his mysterious companion. Lulu, however, had seen Dean. He had gone out through the kitchen door and into the back garden.

     “He was in a tearing hurry,” Lulu said. “Didn’t stop to chat me up like he usually does.”

     “He must have avoided me altogether,” Florence added. “Never saw him in that crowd.”

     “Odd,” Veronica replied and put it out of her mind. Dean had become a petty annoyance.

     She trotted around the ballroom, encouraging gallery-goers to think about going home before all the rickshaw haulers and sedan-chair men called it a night and Dome Two got even darker. This had the effect she intended; out-of-domers promptly left while Dome Two residents made some coin. Dome Two’s nights were always considerably darker than that of Dome Six, making those residents more nervous than they should have been. Veronica also, on Shelby’s suggestion, spoke to the rickshaw haulers and sedan-chair men about the threats made to her. In return, she received promises to keep an eye out. Airik Jones, she reflected, had been correct. She needed allies; as part of the community, she had them in Dome Two if she asked.

     As she made another circuit to collect the last of the empty wine glasses – it was amazing how people managed to hide them in odd corners rather than put them on the table set up just for this purpose – Airik Jones spotted her and changed course to meet her. She had thought he had already retired for the night.

     “Miss Bradwell,” he began.

     “Mr. Jones,” she said, wanting to reassure him. “My apologies. This wasn’t quite the quiet haven I promised you this afternoon.”

     “Quite all right,” he said. “Nunzio checked every floor, including the basement levels, your garden, and the local streets and saw nothing out of the ordinary. I’ll have him go out again, when you’re ready to lock up the house.”

     Veronica was deeply grateful for the reprieve. She wouldn’t have to venture out, by herself, in the rapidly gathering dark. Talking to the rickshaw haulers out in front of the White Elephant had made her jumpy enough and she knew all of them.

     “Thank you,” she smiled up at him, her eyes alight with relief.

     “And,” Airik went on, “I spoke with Upton and Elliot. Upton saw nothing, but Elliot did.”

     He paused to let her absorb the information.

     “Something we could tell the police?”

     “Possibly. Elliot is very observant, particularly in matters of dress and behavior.”

     ‘Valet’ Veronica interpreted. ‘Why, if Mr. Jones can afford a valet is he staying here? Must have been a last-minute trip for the conference and every other hotel was booked.’ It was reassuring to finally work out the answer for their presence.

     “Elliot noticed the man who threatened you because he did not fit in with the local crowd. He was accompanied by another man, who also did not blend in.”

     “Yes, Neza said he might have been with someone.”

     “Elliot believes that this other man, the one we did not directly observe, was, based on clothing and behavior, the thug’s boss. He does not believe these men are long-time residents of Panschin. This boss-type must have seen the incident with you, your sister, myself and Mr. Cobb. He was very unhappy, said so in no uncertain terms, and those two men left at once.”

     “Because that goon threatened me and my sister in front of witnesses,” Veronica said slowly.

     Miss Bradwell could think as well as display grace under pressure, Airik noticed with pleasure. Pressure turned some stone to rubble. Pressure also turned carbon into diamonds. She compared very well to the young ladies being foisted on him as suitable brides. He pushed the thought back into its corner where it refused to stay. The Shelleen family would never accept her. She had no connections, no background, and no wealth. The thought distressed him and he pushed it away, burying it still further.

     “Miss Bradwell, Mr. Jones,” Professor Vitebskin said as he walked, not quite as steadily, from wherever he had been lurking. He handed Veronica an empty wine glass.

     Veronica didn’t bother pasting on a smile. “Yes, Professor?”

     “I’ll send someone by tomorrow and every day there after to check on the safety of the paintings.”

     “Oh. How thoughtful of you,” Veronica said. She restrained herself from rolling her eyes. A student, even one from the PanU Artists’ Collective, should be capable of summoning the police if he found their bodies blocking the doorway into the ballroom.

     “You have your priorities in order,” Airik said dryly.

     “Ignorant yokels from the hinterland, such as yourself, do not understand the importance of art. Fortunately, I do,” Professor Vitebskin replied loftily.

     He stood there, swaying slightly, obviously debating with himself on saying something further.

     Veronica received his message, swallowed a sigh, and got to the point. “Was there something else, Professor?”

     He pursed his lips in distaste and forced out, “My thanks for hosting the show and for speaking to Burgess on my behalf.”

     “I may dislike avant-garde art, Professor Vitebskin, but that does not mean I can’t recognize how much hard work you and the Collective did. None of you deserved what Mr. Burgess had to say.”

     “You don’t know the half of it, Miss Bradwell,” Professor Vitebskin said. “Have Shelby bring the Collective’s half of the door receipts with her in the morning. I’ll send someone else by to get the unopened bottles tomorrow. Good night to you both.”

     He plucked a half-full wine glass from Veronica’s collection of salvaged stemware waiting to be emptied and washed, slugged it back, and made his erratic way to the front door. His steps were not quite straight but he managed to avoid running into any of the easels and to accept congratulations on the show from the other departing patrons.

     Veronica watched him go, Airik standing quietly by her side, and as other gallery-goers tottered in their little groups to the door and stumbled down the front path to the waiting rickshaw haulers, she said, “never again.”

     “No?” Airik asked.

     “No. Hosting these shows hasn’t helped Shelby in the least and somehow paintings never get sold for me to earn a commission. At least I got the White Elephant scrubbed clean but that may not matter now anymore either.”

     “Do not despair, Miss Bradwell,” Airik said calmly. “You are not alone and you do have allies.”

     She smiled up at him and his heart melted. “So I do.”

*****

     Airik contemplated his breakfast with equanimity. He had gotten up with the morning sun or what passed for it within the dome. He had experienced his first night of actual sleep since arriving in Panschin, enjoyed open windows with no party horns whatsoever, and been awakened by the familiar sound of a distant rooster. While he sweated through his morning exercises, he reflected on how a rooster got into Dome Two and decided it must belong to Mrs. Grisson, lording over her flock of pet chickens. Afterwards, he felt much more like himself and ready to face whatever Panschin threw at him, including the odd array of food on the table before him. Elliot and Nunzio were already digging in. Upton looked miserable and bleary-eyed, no doubt due, Airik thought uncharitably, to the amount of cheap wine he had ingested the evening before.

     They sat in quiet splendor in the otherwise deserted and spacious dining room. Veronica provided him with a newspaper which did not – to his relief -- feature a front-page story on the missing daimyo of Shelleen. Gaston had appropriately covered up his disappearance. She efficiently ferried dishes back and forth, and never bothered him once she had made sure he and the rest of his party had what they needed. He had made the correct choice in staying and was in no real hurry to get back to the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel and discover what negotiations and agreements Gaston might have entangled Shelleen in.

     When Veronica came in with a pitcher of fresh water, Airik searched for a conversation that would keep her nearby. He chose not to examine his motives, telling himself it was to ensure his stay at the White Elephant remained peaceful, with no more surprises.

     “Miss Bradwell?”

     “Yes, Mr. Jones?” Veronica felt better and it showed in her face. The fears of the previous evening had receded somewhat as her natural optimism reasserted itself. She had a plan for what to do next, she had decided that her little family wasn’t going to be kicked out of their home that minute, she had some money, and she had allies.

     Her proximity made Airik’s brain empty itself out of his planned conversation so he grabbed the first thought that sprang up.

     “Is Professor Vitebskin the only art instructor with Panschin University? I don’t recall seeing any others.”

     “Oh no, but he’s the only one who counts. There are a number of other instructors in the department, even a few full professors, but none of them came by last night.”

     She stopped, chuckled, and added, “think of the planet Jupiter and his moons orbiting around him and how little power they have. The situation is similar.”

     “Jupiter is a gas giant,” Airik said and wanted to kick himself for stating something so inane.

     To his immense pleasure, Veronica giggled, beamed at him, and said, “Yes, the analogy works on so many levels.”

     She had laughed with him, as though he had made a real joke. The morning became even brighter for Airik.

     Shelby stood at the doorway and snickered. “Good one, Mr. Jones. I’ll have to remember that one.”

     Her face became suddenly more serious.

     “Veronica? I’m going to be back very late, I’m not sure how late. Lulu and Florence already know,” Shelby said.

     “Know what?” Veronica asked.

     “Uh,” Shelby hemmed, not meeting her sister’s eyes.

     “Well?”

     “Mr. Cobb is taking me and all the other art students into the miners’ housing this afternoon so we can get their real opinion on art. I’ve got to run or I’ll be late.”

     “What?” Veronica said sharply. “You’re going off with Mr. Cobb? We don’t know anything about him!”

     “I’ll be fine and I won’t be alone. He invited everyone in the department, the entire Collective. Lulu said I’ll be fine. They’re waiting for me. Oh!”

     Shelby ran up to Veronica and handed her some drawings. “I sketched that thug a few times last night before turning in so you’ve got some pictures to hand around. Bye!”

     She darted out the door before Veronica, standing with her mouth open, could say anything else. She sat down hard, in one of the empty chairs. She laid Shelby’s drawings on the table, ignoring them.

     “Oh no.” Her hand went, of its own accord, to the cool, cloudy beads around her neck.

     “Miss Bradwell, I spoke briefly with Mr. Cobb. He did not strike me as wanting to harm your sister,” Airik said. “I’m sure she will be quite safe.” He watched her fingers twine through the string of irregular, cloudy beads and thought again of how soft her skin would feel under his own hands.

     Veronica shook her head, trying to clear it. “Shelby talked to Lulu but not to me.”

     “Veronica?” Auntie Neza limped into the dining room from the kitchen. “She spoke to me as well. Shelby didn’t want to upset you. She’ll be part of a large group, and Lulu and Florence both insisted that she would be well taken care of.”

     “And how do they know?” Veronica demanded.

     Airik forced himself to pay attention to the old woman and not to the distracting beads around Veronica’s throat. He had yet to decide what stone they were as his thoughts kept forcing their way to what her skin felt like instead of running down gem possibilities.

     “They seemed quite sure,” Neza said. “You know Lulu. If she thought it wasn’t safe for Shelby, she would have had plenty to say. They’re going to the Steelio warrens.”

     “Safe for Lulu and safe for Shelby are two different things,” Veronica said tartly. “You could dump Lulu anywhere in Panschin, including the tunnel bars under Dome Four and she’d be fine. Shelby, on the other hand.”

     “Veronica,” Neza said calmly. “You were married when you were Shelby’s age. Give her a chance to spread her own wings a little bit. Lulu said the Steelio warrens were very respectable.”

     Airik said, “We know Mr. Cobb. We know who he works for. The local branch bank will have all the details about him. If Shelby does not return, we have a starting point.”

     Upton, who had been nibbling at something that resembled dry toast but wasn’t made of any grain he’d ever eaten before, looked up at the word ‘we’. The daimyo of Shelleen who had more than enough to do, had, for some mysterious reason, concerned himself with the wellbeing of the Bradwell sisters. His queasy stomach lurched, distracting him, and he promptly forgot what he had heard in his effort to keep his breakfast down where it belonged.

     Elliot and Nunzio also looked up, traded glances, and said nothing. They did, however, listen more carefully to the conversation. They both also took a discreet look at Shelby’s drawings, abandoned on the table. Elliot nodded in approval to Nunzio; she had captured the thug surprisingly well.

     “Moreover,” Airik continued, “we know where your sister is going. Steelio, while a large operation, will have people who can find out where in their housing Mr. Cobb went.”

     “Steelio. Why Steelio?” Veronica asked her aunt. “Did Shelby say anything?”

     “No, she didn’t.” Neza replied. “I’d guess Mr. Cobb must have an acquaintance who works for the company who can take them down below. He’s a banker. He’s probably never been lower down than the transtubes.”

     “Are you familiar with Steelio, Miss Bradwell?” Airik asked.

     “No, they’re just another mining concern,” Veronica answered distractedly. It was possible dear old dad had swindled Steelio, along with so many other unfortunate clients, but she couldn’t quite remember why she knew the name. Then Inigo Schopenhour and Olwyn Steelio and their families’ dispute surfaced. It had been a long time since she had seen either of them. Mr. Jones, however, wouldn’t be interested in local gossip about star-crossed lovers, so she added “Panschin must have dozens of them.”

     What was Shelby up to? Mr. Cobb had no reason to pay attention to her beautiful little sister other than, she shuddered, the usual reason. Shelby, she feared, was too naïve to understand what she might be getting herself into and it probably wouldn’t help the situation with Mr. Burgess one bit. Malcolm Cobb worked for that cave troll. He was unlikely to be an ally, despite what he had said and what Mr. Jones was saying now.

 


	17. things get worse (they get a lot worse)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things getting better is questionable at this point.
> 
> Or: Veronica and Shelby’s day after the show.

     Veronica fumed as she sat at the dining room table, twisting her beads in agitation, her earlier better mood gone like condensation burned off the dome. There was nothing she could do now about Shelby other than march to the university and demand that her little sister come home at once. She knew her sister wouldn’t thank her for embarrassing her in front of the other students. It would give them one more reason to despise Shelby Bradwell.

     Plus, what Neza said was correct. Shelby was growing up. Veronica thought of Lulu’s opinion of how she sheltered her little sister. They were both right. Shelby would be fine. Her sister had to be. She herself already had a long list of people to speak to about both the out-of-town thug and Mr. Burgess, a process that would take hours and had to be done to protect them all. Shelby would just have to manage on her own.

     She became aware that Mr. Jones was watching her with some concern. Why did he care? It made no sense, other than he had already demonstrated simple human kindness. That was sometimes a rare commodity.

     “I hope you are correct about my sister’s safety, Mr. Jones,” Veronica made herself say. “What are your plans for the day?”

     “I’ll be busy with the mining conference but I expect we will return in the early evening.”

     “Very good,” Veronica said. His return would mean they weren’t in the house alone overnight. “As soon as you leave, Neza and I will be heading over to the police substation, the bank, and to speak with various neighbors. Will you be needing dinner?”

     “No, I don’t believe so.”

     Airik watched her, twisting in her chair with agitation. Veronica, such a beautiful, melodic name made to be whispered in the dark, still looked anxious and he wanted to reassure her again.

     “I’m sure Shelby will be fine and if she is not, I will do everything in my power to help you.”

     “Thank you, Mr. Jones,” Veronica said. She let go of her beads, reached over the table and squeezed his hand, surprising both him and herself. “You are very kind.”

     They sat there, gazing at each other for a timeless, endless moment, and then both pulled away in confusion.

     “We’d best be on our way. I have meetings,” Airik said, trying not to sound flustered. His heart raced in the most unsettling manner, it was difficult to breathe, plus his body’s other reaction was more extreme. He was happy again to be wearing a loose coverall concealing the evidence of how Veronica made him feel.

     “Yes, I do too,” Veronica said, wondering why her hand tingled, her heart pounded, and why she had been so uncharacteristically forward with a complete stranger. “I’ve got to return all the stemware, and warn everyone in the neighborhood and downtown about what happened. Enjoy your day.”

     She watched Mr. Jones leave the dining room, looking not quite as reserved as he usually did. She hoped she hadn’t offended him. Her own emotions were in turmoil. She nothing about this man, other than he had been generous with his time. The question was why. And why did she care?

     Veronica looked up to see Neza watching her.

     “We’d better get started packing the stemware into the handcart,” Veronica told her, hoping her great aunt would take the hint and not make pointed comments about being overly friendly with guests.

     “Yes, we should,” Neza replied but said nothing else to her niece. To herself, Neza wondered what she had just seen. Veronica had refused any introductions since her divorce from Dean, saying only that she didn’t have the energy or time to waste on men. Mr. Jones seemed nice enough, but she knew nothing about him and, since he wasn’t from Panschin, there was no one in her extended circle of acquaintances whom she could ask. Still, it was a good sign that her niece might be finally healing from Dean’s betrayal.

*****

     Airik arrived back in Dome Six after a quiet trip on the transtube, ignored by everyone around them. Fortunately, Upton silently struggled with his hangover and so had not asked any questions about what had transpired in the dining room of the White Elephant with Veronica. Airik knew Elliot and Nunzio would not ask as it was not their place, nor would they, unlike Upton, gossip to anyone on the Shelleen staff. He had no way of answering any questions on the subject as he didn’t understand his own behavior. Instead Airik focused on the list of what he needed done, starting with careful instructions for Elliot. On their arrival, Nunzio led the way down a series of alleys and they entered the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel via one of the many service entrances. As on the trip down the day before, they went unnoticed in their drab coveralls. Nunzio’s low-voiced comment about poor security in the hotel made him worry over what would happen to the Bradwells, alone in the White Elephant until his return in the evening. He pushed those concerns away.

     It was a relief to arrive at the Shelleen suite and focus on what Gaston had done the day before in his absence. The head of Shelleen’s mining department had been waiting anxiously for his daimyo’s return with a sheaf of annotated reports and a schedule for the day.

     Airik reviewed the reports quickly, commenting as he went. When finished, he looked up at Gaston.

     “Good work, Gaston.”

     “Thank you, sir.”

     To Gaston, it looked like where ever Airik went, it had been good for him. The daimyo had immediately grasped everything he had highlighted and spotted a few things he had missed. Gaston resolved to question Upton since he knew neither the bodyguard or the valet would tell him anything. He might, however, be able to coax some gossip out of the secretary. _He_ looked unwell enough to be indiscreet. Knowing how much of a killjoy Airik was, Gaston thought it exceedingly unlikely that Upton had gone out barhopping and gotten drunk. Airik would have never let his secretary get away with some fun when he could be slaving over reports for the betterment of Shelleen. Panschin’s spore-laden air had probably given Upton a sinus infection, similar to Gaston’s own affliction. He blew his nose again, wishing once more he had never come to Panschin. It had been unsettling in a myriad of ways.

     “I have the following modifications to the Jandinaire specifications. I’m pleased you did not sign anything,” Airik said and handed over his heavily annotated report.

     “No sir. It felt too good to be true,” Gaston replied.

     He had spent the previous evening (when not sneezing) fending off various members of the Jandinaire family who a) all wanted to know where Airik was; b) know why he, Gaston, wasn’t agreeing to everything they were pushing since Airik wasn’t around to say no; c) refused to answer any of Gaston’s own questions about references from satisfied customers; and d) asked probing questions of their own about which Jandinaire beauty Airik preferred as his bride and how soon could the wedding be scheduled. It had been maddening, made more so by the fact that his constant sneezing didn’t keep the Jandinaire family, aswarm with Panschin’s germs, away from him. Any decent, right-thinking family should have recognized he was ill and given him some peace in which to recuperate. The Jandinaire family’s behavior guaranteed that Gaston would never look with favor on any of their recommendations.

     “Good eyes, Gaston,” Airik said, filling Gaston with pride. “You were correct in your evaluation.” ‘Now why,’ Airik thought, ‘couldn’t you have been this competent before I arrived in Panschin?’ He made a mental note for future reference that Gaston needed more supervision, rather than less, to perform at his best. One more burden to deal with.

     Airik then looked over the schedule, noting, among other things, a lengthy business lunch with Maerski in the conference dining facility. Having read their proposal the day before and thought about it since, he could guess what pressure and falsehoods were in store. And of course, he could expect to be pestered about which of Maerski’s eligible young ladies he wished to wed right away for the good of both demesnes. He thought of Veronica and returning to her and the peace of the White Elephant at the end of the day. It made the prospect of the coming day easier to bear.

     “Gaston?”

     “Yes sir?”

     “Elliot will be in and out, doing a research project for me. We’ll be returning to the White Elephant at the end of the day. I plan on keeping this schedule until the end of the mining conference. Let’s get started,” Airik said. Gaston looked pleased at knowing exactly what to do. Yes, Airik noted, Gaston required closer supervision.

     He put Veronica Bradwell firmly out of his mind. She was not his concern. The Red Mercury lode was.

*****

     Veronica insisted that Neza accompany her on her rounds. The thought of leaving her elderly aunt home alone and at risk was too upsetting. They loaded up the handcart with the borrowed, washed stemware and set out, starting with Mrs. Grisson. They worked their way down the list and with each set of glassware returned, Veronica showed her neighbor one of Shelby’s sketches, told them what had happened, and received in return a promise to keep an eye out. The neighborhood would be abuzz with gossip. There was every chance that everyone who lived in their district would know of the Bradwell’s situation by the evening, followed by the rest of Dome Two within a few more days.

     She did not bring up Mr. Burgess to any of the neighbors, other than Mrs. Grisson. That worthy lady wouldn’t gossip when asked not to and, more importantly, she was an often-surprising fountain of information. She did not know Mr. Burgess but she would look into him via sources of her own.

     The bank was next. The tellers were equally interested in the threat and the sketch, enough so that Veronica was allowed to speak with the manager of the local branch, Mr. Wong. He had, to Veronica’s relief, already been told about the incident by Mr. Cobb. He was very interested in her own interpretation, saying that it was best to have all the facts. Mr. Wong was also happy to be paid the current month and the next month’s lease payments. It was a real pleasure for Veronica to count out the coins with confidence. She paid the upcoming month in advance, deciding it was an act of optimism, rather than keeping the coins from Mr. Jones in her little hoard for a darker, less pleasant future.

     Veronica had debated with herself during the walk over about asking Mr. Wong about Burgess and his bullying. In the end, she decided to not bring it up, since Mr. Wong would feel obligated to follow the dictates of his superior. There was no point in reminding him. Even better, there was always the chance that Burgess had drunk enough plonk to have forgotten what he wanted to do when morning came. Since Mr. Wong did not bring up Burgess or his threat to kick her out, Veronica decided she was correct. Burgess might not remember at all and Mr. Wong couldn’t remind him if he didn’t know in the first place.

     Instead, she asked to speak to Mr. Cobb. If he was here, it would confirm Mrs. Grisson’s report about his employment. It also would give her a chance to demonstrate she and her aunt were not ignorant about his plans, nefarious or otherwise, for her sister.

     When he appeared from his office, he said warmly, “Miss Bradwell. Miss Molony. I have good news. On my way over to the bank this morning, I walked down your street and saw nothing out of the ordinary.”

     Veronica was startled. This was above and beyond the call of duty. Perhaps he was enough of an ally to be concerned about the White Elephant, even if he did not care what happened to its current inhabitants.

     “Thank you.” She hemmed for a moment, then plunged in.

     “My sister said you would be taking her and the other members of the PanU Collective to the Steelio warrens.” She focused intently on his face. “You will take care of her and them, will you not?”

     Malcolm Cobb smiled at her, oblivious to the surprised glance Mr. Wong darted at him. “Of course, Miss Bradwell.”

     Mr. Wong frowned and said, “Miss Bradwell, Miss Molony, if anything were to happen to your sister because of Cobb’s actions, I assure you, Second National would be most displeased with him.” He threw an open look of dislike at Malcolm who ignored his supervisor as though he weren’t standing there.

     “Very kind of you,” Veronica said, suddenly aware of hip-deep undercurrents washing up against the furniture in the once splendid lobby of the Second National Bank of Panschin. It did not look like the two men approved of each other.

     “I’m going to the police next,” she said, hoping to see if they were united on that subject at least.

     They were.

     “I spoke with them again this morning,” Malcolm said, “after I briefed Mr. Wong on the situation.”

     “The bank will fully support you, Miss Molony, Miss Bradwell, in your dealings with the police,” Mr. Wong said, nodding to each woman in turn. “I plan on visiting the substation myself to insist on beefed-up patrols for both your home and your block.”

     “Thank you. My sister drew the thug last night, so I have a picture for you and your staff,” Veronica said. She handed the drawing first to Malcolm Cobb, adding, “does her drawing match what you remember?”

     He took the drawing and studied it, noticing how in a few, quick lines, Shelby had managed to capture how the thug had looked with his shaved head, the scar on his neck, and his oddly cut suit. She had even managed to show a bit of his swaggering menace. Why then, was her painting so dreadful?

     “Your sister did an excellent job,” Malcolm said. “Mr. Wong, you’ll know best the order in which to circulate Miss Bradwell’s sketch. I am not as familiar with Dome Two or where such a person might be staying.”

     Mr. Wong took the sketch and looked it over, showing no signs of recognition. When he finished, he turned to Malcolm and said “I doubt very much, Cobb, if someone like this would lodge in Dome Two. You would be more likely to find a person of this ilk in some dive under Dome Four. You are far more likely to know of such places than I, or anyone here.”

     Veronica and Neza exchanged glances as the two men scowled at each other. Why would Mr. Cobb know anything about the tunnels under Dome Four? No one with even the remotest degree of respectability went there. The inhabitants, according to Lulu, were hostile to outsiders and even more hostile to slumming members of the upper classes, once all their money had run out.

     Then she remembered.

     “There was someone else with that thug last night,” Veronica said. Both bankers returned their attention to her at once, their unspoken fight forgotten.

     “You recall my guest, Mr. Jones?” she asked.

     “I do,” Malcolm answered. Mr. Wong raised an eyebrow.

     “His cousin, Elliot, noticed the thug being spoken to by another man, also oddly dressed and with the same odd accent. They left together. Elliot felt that the second man was the boss and he was unhappy with the thug’s behavior towards me and my sister.”

     “Because he threatened you in front of witnesses,” Malcolm said at once.

     “A reasonable analysis, Cobb,” Mr. Wong said, looking surprised at having to admit such a thing. “You do not have a sketch of this second man?”

     “No, I’m afraid we don’t,” Veronica answered.

     “This guest, Mr. Jones,” Mr. Wong said. “Who is he?”

     “Um,” Veronica said. Now was not the time or location to admit she rented out rooms in direct violation of the lease, even if it was only for a few days here and there.

     “A very distant set of cousins of mine from Barsoom,” Neza lied, leaping into the conversation to save Veronica the struggle of coming up with a plausible story. Her niece was not the skilled liar her father had been. “They’re here for the mining conference.”

     “Ah,” Mr. Wong said, as understanding and acceptance bloomed. “Of course. Far better to stay with relatives, however distant, than to struggle with an overpriced, overcrowded hotel.”

     “Exactly,” Neza said, building on her story. “Dome Two is quiet and so convenient to every place they need to go to. And it’s always nice to reconnect with distant relations. It’s been many, many years.”

     “So you and your nieces will not be alone in your house at night, then?” Malcolm asked.

     “Yes, Mr. Jones and his cousins will be back every night,” Neza said, hoping she was right and they didn’t change their minds. If Airik Jones came back every night, he would see Veronica and perhaps something might come of it.

     “That’s good to know,” Malcolm said.

     “Yes, it is,” Mr. Wong agreed, looking surprised again at agreeing with Malcolm Cobb.

*****

     Veronica and Neza left the bank and headed to the police substation.

     “That was strange,” Veronica said, once they were outside and safely out of earshot. “Why would Mr. Wong behave that way? As though Mr. Cobb didn’t belong in the bank.”

     “I have no idea,” Neza replied. “I’ll ask Mrs. Grisson. Her junior bank teller should know.”

     “She might, but will she tell us?” Veronica said. “I suppose it doesn’t matter in the end if they dislike each other. They both don’t want someone forcing us out of the White Elephant. Other than that dreadful Burgess, I mean.”

     Neza thought about this. “Do you think Mr. Cobb said anything about Burgess at the bank? How did _they_ seem to get along? Any better?”

     Veronica said, after a long, evaluating pause, “I would have to say they despised each other.”

     “Interesting,” her aunt replied. “Here we are at last. I’ll be glad to sit down for a change.”

     “Is your hip bothering you again?” Veronica asked in alarm. “I’ve been pushing you to get all this done.”

     “Not to worry,” Neza said and then stopped talking as she labored up the multiple sandstone steps leading to the local police substation. With every step, she leaned heavily on her pink cane and panted while Veronica hovered anxiously around her, distracted from worries about Burgess as Neza knew she would be.

     Like the White Elephant, the police substation was immaculately clean of terraformers. The local court building next to it was equally pristine, every carved representation of justice sharply defined. The standard punishment for misdemeanors in Dome Two was scrubbing and scraping municipal buildings clean of their ever-growing sweater of algae and moss. The local law, at every level, took full advantage of the free labor provided by litterers, indigents, rowdy teens, pickpockets, shoplifters, and occasional drunkards. More serious crimes earned the culprits more time laboring for the good of the community. The free-city of Panschin didn’t believe in allowing public offenders to sit around and do nothing while eating and sleeping at the taxpayers’ expense.

     The desk sergeant, a grizzled veteran of long service as evidenced by the tiger stripes of rank marching up his sleeve from wrist to shoulder, studied Shelby’s sketches intently.

     “Never seen this man before,” the sergeant said finally. “I’ll keep this sketch for the station house.”

     “Mr. Cobb at the bank said he spoke to you about increased foot patrols on our street,” Veronica said.

     “That he did, Miss Bradwell,” the desk sergeant replied. “Twice. And, as much as we can, we’ll send a man around regularly to keep an eye on things. However, with the mining conference in town, we’re short-handed.”

     Neza took a look around the lobby, noticing several patrolmen sitting around enjoying their tea-break and ignoring the crowd waiting on the benches to be dealt with. “And what are those fine gentlemen doing, pray tell?”

     “Taking a break from their double shifts, Miss Molony,” the desk sergeant answered wearily. “I’m working one myself. Every pickpocket and mugger in Panschin is out in force during the conference. There were five bar brawls last night, including one right here in Dome Two at the Broken Pickaxe. Those were separate incidents from last night’s full-on riot in the Daimyo’s Arse under Dome Four. That fiasco put two of my men into the hospital trying to break it up.”

     “I thought Dome Two patrolmen stayed in Dome Two,” Veronica snapped. “You know, keeping the local residents safe?”

     “Not during the mining conference,” the sergeant answered. “We go wherever we’re needed. Visitors sleeping in the parks and using the planters as urinals are the least of my problems. After the conference is over, you’ll see the entire museum scrubbed down, including that huge set of steps, its rooftop terrace, and the undersides of all the banisters with all the free labor I’m acquiring from the local idiots. The city’s expecting to get the train station scrubbed clean, like always.”

     “I didn’t realize you were so busy,” Neza said, somewhat mollified at the lack of services she paid for.

     “It will only get worse,” the sergeant said. “If the conference goes like usual, we’ll get more fighting in the bars, more pickpockets, more thefts perpetrated on outsiders who don’t know enough to lock up their stuff, more complaints of every kind.” He smiled at them broadly, displaying a broken tooth from a previous encounter with some hooligan. “The city will earn thousands in fines from out-of-towners. That might be enough to pay for all the overtime every police unit in Panschin is clocking.”

     “I had no idea,” Veronica said, wide-eyed. She had never once considered what actually might happen in the streets of Panschin when out-of-towners flooded it for several event-packed weeks. She’d always assumed the visitors were like Mr. Jones; respectable businessmen who spent the day in conferences discussing improvements in mining techniques, followed by quiet evenings reviewing reports. That led to a new concern.

     “Oh. Oh my. What about PanU? My sister, Lulu, Florence, they all walk back and forth every day. They could be in danger.” She thought of the thug grabbing Shelby off the streets and disappearing into one of the abandoned houses in Dome Two with her. Her hand went to her string of cloudy beads, feeling the reassuring coolness.

     The sergeant was polite enough to not scoff. “The ladies will be fine, just like you ladies are fine, walking around. The tunnels under Dome Four? Some parts of Dome One? Back alleys in sector five in Dome Six? District seven in Dome Three? That’d be different. PanU, like PCC and every other school in Panschin, beefs up its own security for the conference. They keep an eye out for their commuting students as well as their campus.”

     Neza looked over at Veronica and guessed where her thoughts had gone from the frightened look in her eyes.

     “But you’ll do your best.”

     “Yes, Ms. Molony, we will. Keep your doors and windows locked, especially at night. Keep your eyes open. You’ve talked to all your neighbors?”

     “Yes, we have,” Veronica replied.

     “That was the best thing you could do,” the desk sergeant said. “Next best is talking to all the rickshaw haulers and sedan chair men. They’re on the streets all the time and they see everyone.”

     “I spoke with them,” Veronica said.

     “Very good. After that, the business owners. They know who’s not from around here and guys like that thug, they have to sleep somewhere and take their meals from someone.”

     “We think,” Veronica said, “that the thug we saw had a companion, but we don’t know what he looks like other than he’s also not from Panschin.”

     “See if you can get a description,” the sergeant said. “Maybe your sister could draw something up.”

     “Thank you,” Veronica said. She felt shaky and more grateful than ever that Mr. Jones, despite knowing so little about him and his party, had turned up to take rooms at the White Elephant. Her little family would not be alone in the house, at least until the end of the mining conference. But after that, they would be. It was a chilling thought.

     Once outside, she turned to her great-aunt. “It feels like we’re on our own.”

     “We’re not,” Neza said with a confidence she did not feel. “Our neighbors don’t want any trouble, any more than we do. They’ll all watch for any signs.”

     They walked along the sidewalk, towards the business district. Veronica fretted internally with every step over what she should have said at the bank. ‘Better to say it,’ she decided at last. ‘Before we get to the Dappled Yak while we still have some privacy.’

     “I keep thinking that I should have asked about that dreadful Burgess at the bank,” Veronica said aloud. “I didn’t want to bring him up, but at the same time, I don’t want us to be surprised. I’m as worried about him as that awful thug. Neza, do you know anything about him or his family from, you know, before?”

     Her aunt sighed deeply. “No, I do not. I didn’t recognize him when he came to the house and he didn’t say anything to me. Mr. Burgess was just another gallery-goer. I did notice his ridiculous suit. I can’t imagine why a man his size and age thinks he should follow the latest, most extreme fashions. Mr. Cobb was much better dressed as well as being in far better shape.”

     “Shelby certainly thought so,” Veronica said. “She told me last night when she did _not_ tell me about running off with him to the Steelio warren this afternoon.”

     “Shelby is not ‘running off’ with Malcolm Cobb,” her aunt replied tartly. “She’s going on a field trip to visit reality. Residents of the warrens won’t spout that drivel PanU stuffed into her.”

     “Reality! You mean the one where my little sister might get mauled by some man we barely know?”

     “She won’t be alone, Veronica,” Neza said soothingly. “The rest of the Collective will be along for the ride. You couldn’t ask for a more intrusive, noisy, nosy pack of chaperones getting in the way, asking silly questions, and constantly underfoot. And, may I say, this is exactly why Shelby didn’t say anything to you. You are not her mother.”

     Veronica’s face fell, and Neza quickly said, “I’m sorry. I miss your mother every day, just like the two of you do.”

     “I know. It’s just that I worry about Shelby. None of this has been easy for her, since dear old dad, well, you know.”

     “I do know and it hasn’t been easy for you either. But getting back to that Burgess, I don’t know anything about him. I wasn’t out socially that much before and now,” Neza sighed again. “Almost all my connections are gone. I’ll find out what I can, but don’t expect much.”

     “I wish I knew why he dislikes Mr. Cobb so much,” Veronica said. “And Mr. Wong too. I thought bankers stuck together against mere mortals like us. Like they’re all part of some secret cabal.”

     Her aunt stopped to laugh and lean on her pink cane. “How melodramatic. I’m sure it’s much more mundane than that. A disagreement about interest rates, no doubt.”

     Veronica laughed too. “True. What else would bankers talk about?”

*****

     “What the hellation is wrong with you, Cobb? Taking PanU students into the warrens?” Desmond Wong hissed, once he and Malcolm were safely behind closed doors and away from the gossipy tellers.

     Malcolm faced his boss calmly. “I went to the PanU Artists’ Collective showing last night at the White Elephant. I won’t say I admired it because every painting there was dreadful. Miss Shelby Bradwell was gracious enough to tell me the philosophy behind making art that looked like the contents of a cesspool.”

     Mr. Wong was momentarily distracted as Malcolm knew he would be. “A cesspool?”

     “I’m afraid so. It’s what passes for art with our betters.”

     “Your betters, Cobb. Not mine.”

     Malcolm chose to ignore his boss’s dig. “Miss Bradwell was interested in seeing what actual working people like in art as opposed to the drivel she’s been fed at PanU. She assured me that everyone in the Collective would be interested as well.”

     “You aren’t concerned that your cover will be blown?” Mr. Wong asked sweetly.

     “Seeing as how people gossip, I’d say that already happened.”

     “But _Shelby Bradwell_? Do you not know who she is? Are you that incompetent?”

     A warm smile of remembrance flashed across Malcolm’s face, softening the harsh lines.

     “I do know who she is.” He glared at his boss. “She is not her father, nor, I dare say, is her sister, Veronica. Nor their aunt, Miss Molony. Not based on what I saw in their house.”

     “Simon Bradwell made enemies, ruined lives.” Mr. Wong fanned his hands in agitation. “He’s not the only one to do so. I was pressured to accept you and I’m being pressured now, over you and the Bradwells.”

     “Burgess already got to you, didn’t he,” Malcolm said.

     “Last night,” Mr. Wong admitted. “I don’t like you, Cobb. I don’t like your attitude. Your background is appalling. You have no family connections whatsoever, no social standing of any kind. I don’t need you digging up trouble for us here in the branch in Dome Two.”

     Malcolm took a more careful look at his manager. Something else was going on and he wondered, for the first time, why Desmond Wong had been left to rot in Dome Two and why he hadn’t done anything with the unrecognized plum he had been given. It wasn’t just incompetence.

     “Burgess has something on you, doesn’t he.”

     “He does _not_.”

     “He _does_. You never wanted me here. You made that plain from day one. So why did you, the manager of the main branch in the dome, accept a jumped-up tunnel rat? You should have been able to say no. Burgess forced you. He dumped me here with the rest of the dross to hide me where I wouldn’t have to offend his dainty sensibilities by showing how much more capable I am than his precious protégés are.”

     Desmond Wong spun around to stare out the window, past the long-faded, sound-muffling velvet drapes and up at the dome, trapping them beneath its weight.

     Malcolm waited silently, his arms crossed. It felt good to speak his mind to Wong, that incompetent hack. It was a risk but it felt right. He had control of the moment and not Wong. He knew things Wong didn’t know, including who Airik Jones really was.

     His patience was rewarded.

     “You don’t know what you’re risking. Burgess can ruin your life,” Mr. Wong said quietly. “All the senior people here, at our branch, ran afoul of him. Their careers were over.”

     “He has his weaknesses,” Malcolm said. “I’ve been doing some quiet research.”

     Mr. Wong spun around. “It won’t be enough. And I will not allow you to drag me and my family down any further.”

     “You won’t be involved,” Malcolm said. “Just don’t get in my way. Your careers are not over. Why haven’t you done anything with Dome Two? The real estate here is of astonishing size and quality. Dome Six has nothing to compare to it. They won’t be building another dome for decades even while Panschin is bursting at the seams. You let the bank’s investments rot.”

     Mr. Wong smiled slowly, for the first time, a slight baring of teeth. “I meet the minimum standards and that’s all I will do. I don’t draw attention to myself, to my staff, or to our families. I’m not expected to make a profit here in Dome Two so I don’t.”

     “This is how you fight back,” Malcolm said, understanding dawning.

     “Yes, and I suggest you do the same.”

     “Burgess is already trying to dig a shaft to shove me into,” Malcolm said. “I won’t let him succeed, because if he does, he’ll throw the Bradwells down after me and I won’t let that happen.”

     “You may not have a choice.”

     Malcolm took a step forward and quit trying to look non-threatening. He watched in pleasure as Wong blanched and stepped back, closer to the large window overlooking a view of one of Dome Two’s luxuriously green public parks.

     “You were right,” Malcolm said. “I do know where a thug like the one who threatened the Bradwells would hide under Dome Four. I have choices because if I have to, I can disappear into the tunnels and Burgess will never find me.”

     To Malcolm’s surprise, Desmond Wong gave him a look of pity.

     “You could disappear,” he said. “Your family won’t be bothered because Steelio doesn’t bank with us and even if they did, Steelio won’t be bullied and how would Burgess know what happens in their warrens anyway?” Mr. Wong paused. His eyes had lost their usual dull lifelessness. They had become startlingly intelligent.

     “But I don’t believe the lovely Miss Shelby Bradwell or her sister or her aunt would go underneath into the warrens with you. Unlike you, they are not tunnel rats.”

     Malcom stiffened. “I won’t fail. Just stay out of my way.”

     “Do you plan on doing something about that ruffian threatening the Bradwells as well?”

     “I do.”

     “Good. But I cannot help you. I cannot risk further damage to my children’s future. I will do what I’ve always done here in Dome Two. Nothing. Now get out of my office.”

     “Of course, Mr. Wong,” Malcolm said and walked out of his supervisor’s office, his mind whirling. He might have been wrong in his assessment of his boss. If he was wrong here, where else was he making a mistake?

 


	18. into the deep dark tunnels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (those shadows are too long, and have too many teeth)
> 
> Or: Shelby’s day starting with PanU and ending in the Steelio warrens

     Shelby walked through the streets of Dome Two to the PanU campus just like she always had but this morning, everything felt different. The ground was unsteady under her feet, as though the tunnels bored into the rock below Dome Two were twisting themselves into knots. Every step reminded her there was no place in Panschin that didn’t have another layer beneath it, hidden but no less real for her obliviousness to it. Or many layers, all of them previously invisible, and now suddenly forcing their way into her life.

     Lulu and Florence had given up trying to tell her more about life in the warrens during the walk from the White Elephant since she kept saying “I have to see for myself.” It was an easy answer that kept her mind clear for something else she didn’t want to talk about with them.

     What she was really thinking about was Malcolm Cobb.

     Shelby had not just drawn the thug who had threatened her and Veronica the evening before. She had drawn _him_ , concealing her sketch from everyone in the household. And as she sketched out his broad shoulders, rugged face, and confident manner, she’d remembered where she had seen him. He had been one man among many, out and about in Dome Two, but one who stood out because of the way he walked, assured and self-possessed. Unlike her, Malcolm Cobb knew who he was and where his place was in the world.

     She had the drawing with her, carefully folded and tucked into her breast pocket. She couldn’t show it to anyone but she did not want to leave it behind, hidden in the room she shared with Veronica. What if her sister went looking for something else and found her careful, lovingly detailed sketch of Malcolm Cobb by accident?

     Had he seen her before, out and about in Dome Two? It was certainly possible but he had not said so. Another question about him that ate at her was how could he get her and the rest of the Collective down underneath into the Steelio warren. Malcolm Cobb was a banker. Bankers, in Shelby’s limited experience, did not have anything to do with the people who actually dug out and processed the wealth of Panschin. Bankers floated high above the dirty realities of work, especially the work of the mines.

     She would see him this afternoon, and go underneath with him into the warrens. But why Steelio? Lulu insisted Steelio was well-regarded as taking decent care of its workers and their families. Their warren was considered to be pleasant, so that could be the reason. But how pleasant could housing inside underground tunnels be? The thought of going underneath was frightening, but not as frightening as losing the White Elephant to Mr. Burgess.

     Lulu and Florence said their goodbyes at the elaborate arched stone gateway to PanU’s campus. The entry to PCC was much less grand, consisting of a wide tunnel sloping underground to its classrooms and labs. The far sides of the tunnel’s opening were fenced off, so no one could fall in by accident. It didn’t need a roof since it never rained inside the dome. A roof would only block light from falling down into the depths. Shelby stood off to one side, out of the traffic, and stared down into the broad opening. It was well-lit, the walls whitewashed and plastered with posters like what she saw in the hallways of PanU, and filled with all kinds of people coming and going. If Auntie Neza persuaded the bursar of PanU to transfer over her already paid tuition, she’d be going underground with Florence and Lulu on a daily basis. Going underground into the Steelio warrens with Malcolm Cobb was a step in the right direction, a way to adjust to doing something that felt deeply uncomfortable.

     Shelby shuddered and turned away, then headed through the gateway into PanU’s green and beautiful campus, open to the dome high above. The planters were filled to bursting with flowers and the small trees cast their lacy, fringed shadows onto the grass lawns and the paved brick sidewalks. A bird was singing in one of the small trees and another answered from across the red brick walkway. She knew nothing lived underground except people and the cold, unforgiving rock. She took the long way around, to better enjoy being aboveground in the watery sunlight the dome overhead permitted.

     When she finally reached her classrooms, she discovered one improvement over yesterday’s awfulness. She was no longer topic number one in PanU’s art department. That subject was now Reyansh Philpott and his threatened lawsuit against both Professor Vitebskin and PanU. Other students still wanted to talk about her and her father’s crimes, but they also wanted to talk with her.

     Anyone who had not been present during Professor Vitebskin’s screaming match with Reyansh Philpott wanted to hear every detail of the incident. Since Shelby had a front-row seat, she was suddenly in demand from people who never spoke to her other than forced to by mundane necessities. It was even more fascinating to discuss what Reyansh had yelled back to the professor, leading to the most fascinating topic of all: the lawsuit that, apparently, Reyansh’s father had just filed against both the professor and the university. Reyansh hadn’t made an idle threat. He, however, was not present to answer avid questions. He was, so rumor had it, giving depositions at that very moment about how Professor Vitebskin was high-handed, rude, overbearing, lecherous, incompetent, wasted PanU resources on personal projects, and played favorites thus discriminating against anyone whom the Professor disapproved of no matter what their true merits were.

     Most fascinating of all, Reyansh was said to be planning on calling witnesses of his own who would back up every salacious and libelous allegation. Since Professor Vitebskin cut a wide swath through both the faculty and the student body, there were plenty of names being bandied about.

*****

     When Shelby arrived, Professor Vitebskin was presiding over the studio, grimly ripping apart the substandard work submitted the previous week. His critiques were merciless, leaving the offending students near tears. Shelby watched him for a few painful moments, steeled herself, interrupted him (to the intense relief of another student who vanished for a good cry in the janitor’s closet) and told him about Malcolm Cobb’s invitation to the PanU Artists’ Collective.

     Professor Vitebskin tried to stare her down for having the temerity to interrupt him. Shelby Bradwell really was as stupid as she was beautiful. To his surprise, she didn’t turn tail and run. He would have to waste words and time on her talentless self to get rid of her.

     “Shelby,” the professor barked at her. “You are naïve. That idiot banker only wants one thing from you. Think! How could some low-level flunky at a bank take you or anyone else into the Steelio warrens? He’s never been deeper down in Panschin than the transtubes.”

     “He said he would be here at 2PM. Mr. Cobb will take everyone,” -- Shelby waved at everyone either pretending to work or honestly loitering – “with him underneath into Steelio. The Collective talks all the time about art speaking to and for the people. All the professors here at PanU talk all the time about how the university supports the downtrodden masses. Well, do we? This is our chance to prove it.”

     Professor Vitebskin groaned and rolled his eyes in disgust. “Fine, Shelby. You do that. _I_ am not going because _I_ have better, more important things to do.” He took a moment to glare around the studio. No one met his piercing, angry gaze. “If any of _you_ layabouts want to go underneath with Shelby and get disappointed, well that’s better than standing around here and wasting my time.”

     He paused, got no response, then pointed at the next painting on the critique pile. “Who painted this heap of dung?”

*****

     Two PM duly arrived. The moment the clock ticked over, Professor Vitebskin smirked at Shelby in triumph. “He’s not here.”

     “Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm announced, as he strode in through the door thirty seconds later. “Ready to see the real Panschin? Everyone in the Collective is welcome to visit the Steelio warren.”

     “Mr. Cobb. You were able to find us,” Shelby said. Then her brain processed how he was dressed and emptied itself out.

     Professor Vitebskin recovered faster.

     “I didn’t know bankers shopped at secondhand clothing stores. Trying to impress us with your fake bona-fides? It won’t work.”

     Malcolm smiled evenly. “This is my coverall, the one Steelio issued me. I wear it whenever I’m in the deepdown.”

     Professor Vitebskin, whose day had already been trying beyond belief, marched up to him. A safe target for his wrath had finally arrived and he planned to take full advantage of the opportunity.

     “Complete and utter dross” the professor snarled, jabbing his finger at Malcolm to make his point, although he was careful to avoid actual, physical contact with the younger, larger, much more physically fit banker. “You work for a bank. What the seven hells do you know about the working class?”

     “More than you,” Malcolm replied coldly. He did not yield a centimeter to Professor Vitebskin. “I’m a scholarship boy from the Steelio warren. I grew up there. My family still lives there and when I’m not at the bank, I’m underneath in the deepdown, helping my father, my brother, and my uncle dig copper for Steelio.”

     Shelby stared at him. Malcolm Cobb had looked good in his suit. In his coverall, he looked better. It showed that his broad shoulders owed nothing to the skill of a tailor and demonstrated how trim his waist really was. Moreover, it was clear that Steelio had issued him the coverall as it was the real thing, unlike the upscale department store versions worn by most of the students in PanU’s studio.

     Steelio’s coverall was slate gray, to better hide dirt and stains. The company name was emblazoned on both sleeves, up both legs, and across the back in vivid, reflective orange, the better to be seen in the dark. On the front, Malcolm’s name was embroidered in the same orange, last name first, followed by his first initial. On the other side of his chest was Steelio in a fancy flowing script and his company number. He also had his last name emblazoned across his back, underneath the Steelio name. Every wear spot and stain, and there were many, were real and right where you would expect them from a working garment. There were no raw, sanded scrapes; any spots like those had been carefully patched. He wore heavy, thick-soled and scuffed boots, with extra leather sewn over the toes to reinforce them. This was a style Shelby rarely observed among the students of PanU but was common among the maintenance staff.

     “A scholarship boy? You mean a jumped-up tunnel rat,” Professor Vitebskin sneered. “No wonder you know nothing about the meaning of art.”

     “I’ve toured the Panschin Museum so I’ve seen real art. Unlike the piles of tailings at the White Elephant, those paintings are beautiful, or at least interesting and educational.”

     “So you’re an ignorant philistine too!” Professor Vitebskin said.

     Shelby watched them in disbelief, recounting as she did every time Professor Vitebskin or any of the other professors at PanU talked about serving the downtrodden. What else did he say that he didn’t mean or that wasn’t true? She swallowed hard. She really didn’t know anything. She really was naïve. The realization was painful. She took a look around. They had drawn the usual appreciative audience since nothing ever happened discreetly at PanU. It was like living in the middle of a theater. An audience always appeared, lured by the promise of a free show.

     She thought of Mr. Burgess and losing her home. Professor Vitebskin complained about students and faculty wasting his time. How much of her time had he wasted since the day she started classes? Now he was wasting even more, time she could be spending trying to keep the White Elephant safe.

     “Stop this right now,” Shelby made herself shout. All eyes turned to her, and for a mercy, Professor Vitebskin shut up in his shock.

     “Mr. Cobb is kind enough to take the Collective underground to the warrens,” she said loudly. “I am going. Who else is coming with us?”

     The studio went dead silent. She stared up at Malcolm’s dark, approving eyes, her heart racing. He smiled at her. It suddenly struck Shelby -- flushing in embarrassment and tearing her eyes away from him and looking at the suddenly busy studio -- the other reason why he stood out so much, and not just because of how he was dressed. He wasn’t much older than the other students but he wasn’t a teenager playing at being a grownup. He was an adult.

     “Well?” she asked even louder. “Anyone?”

     Dear Gods, she was going to have to go underground with Malcolm Cobb alone.

     She waited tensely, wishing someone, anyone, would fill the silence.

     “I will,” Kip said reluctantly. “You shouldn’t go alone, Shelby.”

     He came out of the corner where he had been hiding from Professor Vitebskin’s critiques – well-deserved in his case -- and faced her, Malcolm, and the goggling, open-mouthed professor. The rest of the students looked equally shocked. Kip McGrant never did anything out of the ordinary that would excite gossip. His main concern had always been his image and reputation, both of which were bland.

     “I’ll go with you,” he repeated.

     Shelby was floored. “Kip? Are you sure?”

     “Well, yeah.” Kip darted a look over at Malcolm Cobb, looking threateningly large and decidedly out of place in the PanU art studio.

     Malcolm said, “anyone else? We’ll be using the large freight elevator so I can take a crowd into the deepdown. You’ll be safe. You have my word.”

     “For what that’s worth,” Professor Vitebskin muttered.

     “You too, Professor Vitebskin,” Malcolm said coldly. “You should see what real mining looks like instead of the dross you smear across canvas.”

     “Unlike other people, I have work to do. Get out of my studio.”

     “Let’s go,” Shelby said, wanting desperately to get the afternoon over with. To Kip she whispered, “thank you. I was afraid of going by myself.”

     He smiled at her, the way she had always wanted him to, when other, more important people were around to see him show her approval. It was a pleasant feeling to know that Kip cared enough about her to demonstrate it, when it really mattered. Although, the traitorous thought lingered, why didn’t he when it didn’t matter? He could have introduced her as a fellow student to his parents at the gallery showing, yet he had not. It was a mystery.

*****

     Malcolm took charge, leading the way to the metro station. Once inside, he headed at once down the stairs, lower down, to a level Shelby had never been on. With each step downward, into the bowels of Mars, the sense of dead, hating rock increased. The people around them changed as well. Everyone looked more tired, dirtier, and their clothing shabbier. Yet many of them still laughed and joked among themselves, ignoring the tourists from another world.

     Shelby wanted desperately to hold Kip’s hand but instead, she kept her free hand firmly in her pockets. She was clutching her satchel in the other, containing her precious sketchpads and pencils. Kip didn’t speak at all, and kept his own hands shoved into his shiny new coverall’s pockets. She noticed that he had left his drawing materials behind, making her wonder again why Kip was studying art. He didn’t work at it like she did.

     As they walked down the concourse, she saw him pass by everyone else down there, ignoring them as though they didn’t exist. He looked so out of place, with his fashionable haircut and bandbox fresh appearance. She looked like many of the other women, clad in a dull, well-worn coverall. The main difference was that her clothing didn’t have a company name on it, showing who she worked for. Even so, Shelby was not alone in lacking a company logo embroidered all over her garments. There were young men in the crowd, younger than Kip in some cases, but they already had a harder edge about them. It was unexpectedly fascinating to see the range of humanity, so different from PanU’s student body and the usual foot-traffic on Dome Two’s streets, and she stored up impressions to sketch later.

     Malcolm selected a transtube from the directory, paid for their tickets, and led the way to the open doors on the metal cylinder. She numbly followed him onboard. Kip brought up the rear, looking sullen and unhappy.

     Once seated, Mr. Cobb turned to her. “Miss Bradwell.” His face was concerned. “You’ll be safe. I swear it.”

     Shelby fought for control. No one here was concerned in the least about whizzing underground in a tube of badly lit metal. The walls of the tunnel could be seen through the dirty transtube windows and they were uniformly the colors of the paintings that Professor Vitebskin championed.

     ‘So this was where he got his ideas,’ Shelby thought. ‘He sees Panschin from the transtube windows.’ She had always heard he traveled via the more expensive, upper tram level from Dome Six, the one used by anyone who could afford better than the mass transit used by the masses. Clearly, based on his choice of artistic subjects, he must not have.

     The crowded transtube jolted down the tracks and nothing bad happened. No rocks fell from the ceiling. There were no signs of crumbling tunnel walls leading to them being trapped. She sat wedged between Malcolm and Kip and wished she could hold someone’s hand for the reassurance of a human touch. No one else in the transtube seemed to feel the least discomfort. It was just her. She had to make do with sitting between them. It was disconcerting when the transtube jerked and she was pushed closer to Malcolm. He didn’t seem to mind when that happened. Oddly, when she was pushed into Kip, he pulled away from her as though her presence was unwanted. Then why had he volunteered to come?

     The trip seemed to take forever, yet none of Shelby’s fears came true. The roof didn’t collapse, crushing them into piles of bloody gravel. The transtube’s air remained breathable so they didn’t suffocate. She was stared at but not in a hostile manner. Gangs of marauding hooligans didn’t race through the transtube, robbing the passengers of what few valuables they possessed. She didn’t think that was because of Malcolm’s presence either. It was all very mundane.

     It reminded her of Veronica telling her in irritation ‘Shelby, you like drama but the rest of us don’t so stop making things more dramatic than they are’. Had she been overdramatizing going underground into the deepdown? She reflected on this and realized it was possible her sister was right. It might also indicate she’d overdramatized the situation with that awful cave-troll, Burgess. He was a threat but that didn’t mean he would murder them in their beds, followed by composting their bodies to get rid of the evidence. The thug who had threatened her and her sister was a more likely candidate. He, however, already had the police looking for him along with every neighbor, business owner, and rickshaw hauler in Dome Two.

     As Shelby gradually relaxed, she began to notice that Kip was becoming tenser.

     “Kip?” she whispered. “Are you all right?”

     “No, I’m not,” Kip mumbled. “This transtube is awful. It’s crowded and it stinks. Don’t any of these people take baths?”

     Shelby decided to ignore his pettiness. “I’m really glad you came along with me, Kip. I was afraid I would have to go alone.”

     She smiled anxiously up at his tightly drawn face, thinking of all the times she had wanted him to notice her. He never had, unless no one who mattered was around. Then he paid attention, chatting about the day’s events and joking. No one mattered here. No one either of them knew would be on this particular line, heading to who knows where. Yet he still didn’t seem to notice her, focusing on something inward that desperately needed his complete attention.

     Shelby frowned to herself and wondered what other situations she was misreading. She looked around the transtube again, taking in the crowd, both seated and a few hardy souls hanging from the straps, and wondered for the first time where they were in relationship to Dome Two. The transtube rattled to a stop at the station and more people got on and got off. It struck her that she could get off at this station and have no idea of how to get home. She was totally dependent on Malcolm Cobb keeping his word to her.

     She did not want to ask him their location and betray still further how ignorant and naïve she was. She had rarely traveled on the transtubes since her exile to Dome Two. There had been no need and no money and no desire to explore the rest of Panschin.

     “Kip?” she whispered. “Do you know where we are?”

     He twisted in his seat to get a better look at her face.

     “How the hellation should I know? I’ve never been this deep before,” Kip said. He looked very unfriendly so she turned away and looked straight across the transtube, peering between the other passengers to stare out through the window at the drab wall of the tunnel racing by.

     Mr. Cobb must have heard her question. He twisted in his seat and quietly said, “we’ll be getting off at the next stop. The Steelio warren won’t be far. They’re actually not under a dome; they’re located in one of the open spaces between the domes. They’re under the original grow-tunnels.”

     Shelby said, “are those still used?” She wanted to bite her tongue for saying something so silly.

     “Sure are,” Malcolm replied. He noted again how sheltered Shelby Bradwell really was, yet here she was anyway, daring the unknown. He wanted even more to protect her and have her smile up at him instead of that useless Kip McGrant. “It’s actually good for Steelio, since it’s not under a dome. We’ve got long, long light-shafts opening from the grow-tunnels down to the warrens. We get real sunlight,” he said with pride.

     Shelby knew how deep the light-shafts were that fed light into the two basement levels in the White Elephant. There were light-shafts that performed the same task for PCC. Their tiny, polished domes were scattered all over the PanU campus, bringing light into the classrooms and labs belowground.

     “So the Steelio warrens aren’t very deep?”

     “We’re pretty deep. Fifty meters or more.”

     “Oh.” That was more than deep enough to die in a cave-in.

     “Do many people live in Steelio?” She should have listened more closely to Lulu and Florence’s explanations. On the other hand, it gave her something distracting to talk about.

     “Over a hundred families. Steelio isn’t one of the bigger operations.”

     “Oh.” Shelby thought of children growing up in dark, cramped tunnels, never seeing the sunshine or having room to run in.

     “Steelio does a good job with its housing,” Malcolm said, sensing her discomfort. “They never have to struggle recruiting workers, since the miners know their families will be treated reasonably well.”

     “There are companies that have to, uh, beg for workers?”

     Malcolm frowned awfully. “Oh yes. The worst companies have to recruit desperate men from outside the city who don’t understand what they’re signing up for. They come from all over, looking for a better life but they don’t always find it. Panschin has a fully deserved reputation for chewing up and spitting out men.”

     “That’s not true,” Kip mumbled. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

     “And what do you know about anything outside of your own experience?” Malcolm asked coldly. “Do you ever go outside of Dome Six other than to attend PanU?”

     “I get around,” Kip retorted and sank back in his seat, more sullen than before.

     “Kip?” Shelby said hesitantly. “Florence told us what happened to her father. What Chung/Banerjee did to her family. She hates them.”

     “Chung/Banerjee is not like that,” Kip said very firmly. He sat up straight again, revived by irritation. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Shelby.”

     She did not want to argue with Kip. What if he left? She’d be alone with Malcolm Cobb and she’d never find her way home again. Shelby thought of Florence, who even more so than Lulu rarely discussed her upbringing. Florence who was determinedly cheerful and optimistic as though her positive attitude would ward off anything bad happening to her. Florence who regularly said how grateful she was to be attending PCC on a scholarship that would earn her a better life than the one her mother suffered or the one her sister ended up in, on her back and servicing any one with the coin to pay her. Chung/Banerjee had used up her father, spit out what remained, and then abandoned what was left of the family.

     “I do know what I’m talking about, Kip,” Shelby said. “Florence doesn’t lie.”

     “Well, she’s lying now.”

     “She is not.”

     Malcolm interrupted. “Who is Florence, Miss Bradwell?”

     “She’s my friend,” Shelby said. Her expressive face suddenly lit up, realizing how true that was. “She’s really nice. Her and Lulu both.”

     “Ah,” Malcolm said. “That must be why I saw her at the gallery showing at the White Elephant, helping you serve the nibbles.”

     “You know her?” Shelby said, taken aback and worried all over again. Florence would have provided a full report if she knew Mr. Cobb. Why hadn’t she said something?

     “No, but I’ve seen her with you, and I suppose Lulu, walking around Dome Two,” Malcolm said.

     “You’ve seen me before?” Shelby sputtered. Oh dear Gods below, he was targeting her. She’d never make it home in one piece.

     “Oh yes. You’re hard to miss. I’ve seen you sketching all the different planters of flowers. You were so intent on them. I like the little yellow and purple ones best. They look like they have faces.”

     “Those are pansies,” Shelby said, not knowing what else to say.

     “I didn’t know that,” Malcolm replied.

     ‘How could he not know what a flower was named? The Steelio warrens must be awful,’ Shelby thought. ‘How much worse are the rest?’

     “Who cares about dumb old flowers,” Kip said suddenly, breaking the silence.

     “I care,” Shelby snapped. “Flowers are beautiful. They make the world more colorful and fantastic. There’re dozens of kinds and all of them are lovely. My sister and I maintain the planters on our street for the neighborhood association.”

     “They’re a waste of money,” Kip said.

     “Being underground getting to you, Kip?” Malcolm asked. He had observed the fine sheen of sweat across Kip’s face and the faint tremor in his hands. Shelby was nervous, even frightened at times, but she wasn’t sweating. It was a good sign.

     “No. I’m fine,” Kip said. “Quit bugging me about it.”

     “Uh-huh. Where does Florence live, Miss Bradwell?” Malcolm asked, digging about for a neutral topic. He didn’t want to reveal more of his ignorance about the flowers Shelby drew. His very practical education kept showing huge gaps, gaps that regularly tripped him up. He was coming to believe the gaps were on purpose, ensuring he couldn’t climb as high as he wanted to in Panschin’s hierarchy. He’d always remain a scholarship boy, routinely betrayed by his lack of social polish and inborn cultural acumen. “In Dome Two as well?”

     “Yes, with us, actually,” Shelby replied and wanted to bite her tongue off again.

     “With you? In the White Elephant?” Malcolm asked.

     “We’re allowed,” Shelby shot back. “We’re allowed to have live-in help. We’re not renting out rooms like Mrs., uh, I mean, like some people do. My sister would never do that.”

     “You’re friends with the servants?” Kip asked in horror. “How could you?”

     Shelby turned to stare at Kip, equally horrified. “Because Florence is really nice, that’s why. How could you say such a thing?”

     Malcolm, for his part, interpreted what Shelby had said and then not said. So, Florence, and probably Lulu too, lived with the Bradwells, trading unending housekeeping and possibly coin for room and board. It was a common enough arrangement, one he had already observed in Dome Two, and everyone who used it did so to skirt their lease obligations. His own landlady had told him that if the bank official from First National came by and questioned him, he was to say he was a gardener; this despite the fact she knew who he worked for and knew he couldn’t tell one plant from the next. And the ‘Mrs.’ that Shelby started to mention was probably another resourceful landlady, making the most of her only asset: a big house with lots of empty rooms that desperately needed continuous maintenance. Interesting. It could be Mrs. Grisson, she of the pet chickens and the unauthorized but enterprising farming enterprise in Dome Two supplying the Dappled Yak.

     “Because she’s lying about Chung/Banerjee, that’s why,” Kip said.

     “No, she isn’t, Kip, and I don’t want to hear another nasty word from you about Florence,” Shelby replied sharply.

     “I know Chung/Banerjee’s reputation,” Malcolm said. “They aren’t the worst mining operation in Panschin but they’re definitely down near the bottom of the shaft.”

     Kip seized his opening. “So who is the worst, since you seem to know all about it.”

     “That would be Jandinaire,” Malcolm growled. “Hands down.”

     “Yeah, okay, I’ll accept that, maybe, you might be right on that part,” Kip said. He sat back, mollified. “My dad says the same thing and so do my uncles. Jandinaire is a pack of liars. They falsify their data. Chung/Banerjee would never do that.”

     Malcolm rolled his eyes but chose not to say anything.

     The transtube jolted harshly and suddenly, throwing Shelby against Malcolm’s body. She swallowed a scream and began to shake. The tunnel roof had caved in for sure. He saw her distress and put a reassuring arm around her.

     “The transtube always bounces right at this point. Maintenance can’t seem to keep the rails straight. Think of it as a signal that we’re almost at our stop,” Malcolm said.

     Shelby struggled to breathe, and not just because of the jolting. The jolt had practically thrown her into Mr. Cobb’s lap, he didn’t seem to mind, and she didn’t know what to think of it herself. She was intensely aware of his maleness, his scent, and the hard, muscular body she was pressed against. He was reassuring, she decided, in a way that Kip could not be. Kip was sweating and looking ill, like _he_ needed reassuring.

     “Can’t they fix this?” Kip asked. “Too incompetent?” His voice sounded strained, with a jittery edge.

     “Kip, we’re heading for the deepdown. Things don’t always work the same down here the way they do on the surface,” Malcolm answered absently. Shelby felt _wonderful_ snuggled up against him, setting his nerves aflame. Even better, she had leapt to the defense of her girlfriend. She might be naïve and inexperienced but she wasn’t a snob.

     The transtube rattled forward and finally jolted again to a stop.

     “This is our stop,” Malcolm said. He reluctantly pulled his arm away from her and stood up. Shelby rose to her feet and realized Kip was still sitting hunched over.

     “Kip. It’s our stop,” Shelby said. “Is something wrong?”

     Kip glared up at her, his forehead dewy with sweat. A bead rolled down his cheek, dripping onto his clothes. “Quit fussing over me, Shelby. Let’s go.” He heaved himself to his feet and lurched over to the exit doors, elbowing people aside in his effort to escape the confined transtube.

     Shelby fretted over what to do, then noticed Malcolm watching Kip with some concern. He said nothing so she decided she was exaggerating again, Kip was fine, and followed them both out of the transtube and onto the platform. She had never gone so far down under the surface and she had to travel further down still, into the deepdown of the Steelio warrens.

     Malcolm again led the way down the dim corridor, working his way through the throng of people scurrying to work or plodding home. Shelby noticed that he was known by a number of people who passed them. He was greeted with smiles and nods. He also wasn’t the only man wearing a Steelio coverall. Everyone who wore one of those identifying uniforms knew who Malcolm Cobb was and they all seemed to approve of his existence.

     He stopped at a wide staircase winding down further into the deepdown. Shelby stopped to look over the railing. The stairs seemed to go down and down and down.

     Kip peered over the railing too. “We have to go all the way down?”

     “No, we’ll be taking the freight elevator. It might be easier for you,” Malcolm replied.

     “An elevator,” Shelby said slowly. “I’ve never been on one.”

     “I have,” Kip said importantly. “The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel has one. I went to a party there and we took turns riding the elevator up and down.”

     “The freight elevator here is used to move ore up and supplies down,” Malcolm said. “But the warrens are allowed to use them too as long as we don’t interfere with scheduled operations.”

     The freight elevator was terrifying. It was a simple platform surrounded by a loose framework of timber and the gearing mechanisms and cables that let it ride up and down. The railing on the platform looked rickety and the walls of the shaft were raw, angry rock close enough to touch. Shelby had thought the lighting in the corridors was dim, but compared to the shaft, it was like being in Dome Two in midafternoon on a sunny day. She peered up the shaft and far, far, far above, there were tiny cracks of light demonstrating that the beautiful surface world still existed.

     “Watch your step,” Malcolm said. He stepped onto the platform and held out his hand for Shelby to take so she too, could step onto the platform and descend still further down.

     She hesitated, wanting to turn around and run back to somewhere, anywhere that didn’t take her still further from the surface, from light and sun and air and color. As she stood there, steeling herself to step over the wide gap plummeting down to oblivion, someone else came running up.

     “Malcolm! On your way down?”

     Malcolm smiled easily. “Jeffen. I’m taking some visitors down from PanU to see Steelio’s warrens.”

     Shelby turned to see this newcomer, intensely grateful she wouldn’t have to step onto the platform that very minute.

     “PanU, huh. Why would anyone from PanU come here?” Jeffen asked. He gave Kip a long, curious stare and an equally long, but more appreciative one to Shelby. Like Malcolm Cobb, he was wearing a Steelio coverall, in his case a much dirtier one. He was, Shelby guessed, older than Malcolm Cobb, but not by very much.

     “They’re artists,” Malcolm said. “They want to see more of Panschin than just what’s aboveground.”

     Jeffen chuckled. “You’re in for a treat. There’s no place that beats Steelio.”

     “Can we just get on with it?” Kip muttered. He’d been hanging back too, as reluctant as Shelby to step on the unstable looking platform.

     “Jeffen, this is Miss Shelby Bradwell and Kip McGrant,” Malcolm said. “Jeffen is one of Steelio’s finest.”

     “Like I care,” Kip mumbled.

     “Kip, don’t be rude,” Shelby said. “It’s nice to meet you, Jeffen.” She thought she might have seen a flash of distaste on Jeffen’s face when Malcolm said Kip’s name and decided she was being overdramatic again. Jeffen was much more positive about her presence, despite her unfortunate last name. Maybe he didn’t know who she was.

     “So you’re an artist,” Jeffen said to her, ignoring Kip completely. “I like cloud pictures, myself.”

     Shelby leaped at the opening he gave her, delaying having to get on the platform with Malcolm Cobb.

     “Really? I love clouds.” Where did someone like Jeffen ever get to see clouds? Shelby hadn’t seen real clouds in years, not since before dear old dad’s downfall and her last trip to Panschin’s summer-only, outside of the domes park. She still had her sketches pinned up in the room she shared with Veronica. “May I ask why that and not, oh, uh, rock formations?”

     “Rocks? I seem them all damn day. Don’t need to see no more of them,” Jeffen said and spat noisily onto the ground near his feet, narrowly missing Kip’s. “But I remember clouds. My dad, he brought us here to Panschin when I was a tyke and I still remember how beautiful they were, floating above the world so fluffy and clean and white.”

     Jeffen gazed dreamily into the distance, his eyes far away. “Still remember every detail.” He snapped back to the present. “I cut cloud pictures out of magazines now. My wife and I got our walls and ceilings almost covered now with cloud pictures.”

     “That sounds lovely,” Shelby said warmly. “I’ve gotten to see clouds too. They’re so gorgeous. Every shade of white and little tinges of pink around the edges. They dance across the sky and the wind blows them into little wisps.” She was lost for a moment, forgetting her surroundings in the vivid memory of the immense world of the Martian sky, always changing and always new.

     Malcolm watched her expressive face, wishing he too could see what Shelby saw. If she was willing, he’d pay their way outside the domes to the public summer park and they could watch clouds together.

     Kip was less impressed. “They’re just big puffs of water vapor.” He pressed his hand against the wall. His complexion, normally a true upper-class emerald, had gone ashy. His hand shook, a tremor passed over his body, and, despite the noticeably cooler air, a fresh sheen of sweat coated his cheeks, droplets rolling down his neck.

     “Kip,” Malcolm said. “What’s wrong.”

     “Nothing’s wrong with me,” Kip snapped. He turned to Shelby.

     “I can’t do this. I just can’t. I’m sorry, Shelby. You’re on your own.”

     Kip took a step away from the elevator’s platform, stumbled and collapsed to his knees.

     “Surface sickness,” Malcolm said. “I was afraid of that.”

     “I’d say you’re right,” Jeffen replied.

     Neither man made a move towards Kip.

     Shelby stared at them and then raced to Kip’s side, knelt down, and put an arm around him. He shrugged it off.

     “Leave me alone, Shelby,” he muttered. “This wouldn’t be happening if I hadn’t come along.”

     “Mr. Cobb, what do we do?” Shelby asked. “We have to help Kip.” She pulled away, hurt and confused again by how Kip couldn’t seem to make up his mind about how he felt about her. “What’s surface sickness?”

     “Some people just can’t stand going underneath into the deepdown,” Malcolm said. “They start to sweat and get the shakes. The deeper they go, the worse it gets. I’ve been watching Kip and it looks like he’s one of them. He’ll be fine as soon as he’s on his way back up to the surface.”

     “Malcolm,” Jeffen said. “I’ll take Kippy here back up topside so you and Miss Bradwell can go on to Steelio’s warren. I’ll find you.”

     “An excellent idea, Jeffen,” Malcolm said. “Miss Bradwell, do you want to continue?”

     She met his eyes, her heart racing. She did not want to continue. She wanted to run back up topside with Kip and never come down underneath the surface again. Malcolm watched her steadily. Shelby tried to guess what he was thinking and kept coming up with the same scenario: he chose to support Mr. Burgess and she, her aunt, and her sister would lose their home.

     She swallowed audibly and lifted her head proudly. “Yes, I’d like to continue on downwards and visit the Steelio warren.”

     Malcolm wanted to shout with joy. Shelby Bradwell, his Dome Two beauty, was showing every sign of being the woman he hoped she was. She was so beautiful and so brave and he wanted her. She might give him a chance to prove himself worthy of her. The thought was intoxicating.

     He said none of that, other than his face lighting up. “I’d be honored.”

     Jeffen pulled Kip, not very gently, to his feet. “Back up to the surface, Kippy. Soon as you start going upwards, you’ll start feeling better.”

     Kip roused himself enough to say to Jeffen, “it’s Kip, you oaf. Clean the dross out of your ears. To Malcolm he slurred “if Shelby doesn’t come back, I’ll press charges.” He leaned against Jeffen, who looked resigned at the task he had been handed. “Get me out of here.”

     Shelby was flooded with irritation. “Kip, you are being so rude. I’m sure Jeffen will take good care of you. I will be fine with Mr. Cobb. Finer, I think, than I would be with you. I’ll see you tomorrow in the studio.”

     She stepped firmly onto the freight elevator’s platform, feeling very proud of herself that she didn’t shake all over. She clutched her satchel tightly to keep it from falling forever d0wn the shaft, down to wherever it finally bottomed out.

     “I’m ready, Mr. Cobb.”

     Jeffen mouthed something at Malcolm, who nodded.

     “Call me Malcolm, please.” He pressed the button, the freight elevator lurched into life, and began to descend down the shaft, into the deepdown.

 


	19. deeper and deeper we go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (those creeping shadows grow ever longer)
> 
> OR: Into the Steelio warrens with Malcolm

     Use his first name? That felt disturbingly intimate. What else did Malcolm Cobb want from her? As if she couldn’t guess. The freight elevator lurched downward and there was nothing safe to hold onto and nowhere to run.

     It lurched again and Shelby couldn’t stop herself from squealing in panic and clutching at the railing. It shifted under her grasp, making her squeal louder. The platform was going to crash to the bottom of the shaft, taking her and him with it, leaving their bodies in a heap of bloody bits.

     “Take my hand, Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm said. “And please, do not scream.”

     The platform lurched for a third time, but the crash she feared didn’t happen. Shelby stepped as close to Malcolm as she dared, and grabbed his big, warm, strong hand, interlacing her fingers between his.

     “Thank you,” she whispered, wondering if she dared ask him to put an arm around her as the platform descended further into darkness. It was an intriguing thought, a frightening one, and even more intimate than using his first name. He had put his arm around her on the transtube and the feel of his muscled arm against her body been surprisingly pleasant, even thrilling if she were being honest. But what if her doing so gave him more ideas of what else she might be willing to do?

     Malcolm. He wanted her to use his given name. It was another step towards something she was still unsure about doing, no matter how badly she wanted to save her home.

     She knew she was being silly and dramatic. He already knew what her name was. Why was she hesitating? Mr. Cobb, no, Malcolm, had already treated her with more respect than most of the boys at PanU ever had. Reyansh Philpott in particular stood out from the pack, making her tighten her fingers around his against the flood of angry memories. Malcolm hadn’t said one lewd word to her, implying she was some chola from the tunnels and didn’t deserve anything better than a quick shag behind a hedge. He certainly hadn’t pawed at her, even when she was shoved up against him on the transtube.

     She seized on his odd request to distract her wayward thoughts. Who would care or hear her?

     “Why don’t you want me to scream?” As if there was anyone around to help her.

     “Because if you do, any man in the area will come running to save you. You’ll get an escort back up to the surface.”

     “And this would be bad?” Shelby asked, diverted by the sudden prospect of escape from a freight elevator sinking into darkness.

     “I’ll get beaten to a bloody pulp. I’d rather avoid that.”

     “Oh. Uh, what would they want from me?”

     “A walk in the park would be nice but it wouldn’t be expected,” Malcolm answered. “The Steelio warren doesn’t tolerate disrespectful behavior. I would be assumed to be at fault, particularly since you are visitor from up above.”

     “Oh.”

     She thought about it some more, feeling his warm, strong hand in hers as the platform lurched lower. It might be true, what Malcolm had said. He’d had every opportunity to paw at her and he hadn’t. Lulu and Florence had both insisted she would be safe, along with the rest of the Collective, and, even though the Collective wasn’t along for the ride, it was turning out they were right.

     “Please, call me Shelby,” she said softly. The words echoed in her head but on the platform, they were almost drowned out by the sound of the mechanism lowering them into the depths. But still, he heard her.

     “I would be honored, Shelby.”

     Malcolm could feel his heart racing. Her hand was so warm in his, and she smelled faintly of something floral he didn’t know the name of. He did know he already liked it. He wanted to bury his nose in Shelby’s fluffy, lustrous brunette hair and drink in her scent. He wanted to do so much more with her. He forced his unruly thoughts back under control. It had been a while and Shelby Bradwell wasn’t some chola selling her only asset. She was, despite everything her father had done, a princess from Dome Six and he was a scholarship boy. He had to prove himself to her. He would do his damnedest to keep her family safe from Burgess. The thug from the gallery showing was a different challenge, but he’d already thought of who to ask and where to go. The thug would also give him a reason to stop by, regularly, to see how she was doing.

     Shelby could still say no to him, Malcolm realized, but it no longer mattered. She needed his protection and he’d do his best to keep her safe and happy. He could live with her refusal, but he couldn’t live with himself if he let her be hurt.

     The platform ratcheted down and as they descended, Shelby glimpsed light. Where they were heading wasn’t as dark as where they were now.

     “Is that our stop? It’s brighter,” she said hopefully.

     “Yes, that’s the Steelio warrens stop. The freight elevator goes a lot further down, to the working tunnels. There are a lot of stops between here and the current end of the line.”

     Further down. What a terrifying thought. Shelby could feel herself tightening her hand around Malcolm’s again. He would expect things from her, she just knew it. The thought was attractive and scary in equal measures. Maybe not equal anymore. He was rapidly becoming more attractive. He was so sure and self-confident. He was a scholarship boy with everything that implied, starting with his intellect. He must have worked very hard to get where he was. Nobody had handed him anything, unlike Reyansh Philpott.

     She was so brave. Malcolm was impressed all over again. Every line of Shelby’s expressive face showed how scared she was, yet she hadn’t insisted on scurrying back to the surface with that mazhor, Kip McGrant. Shelby would never be able to lie successfully; she showed every mood and emotion. He didn’t think she knew who Kip was related to, and she probably wouldn’t care if she did. Her friend Florence mattered more. It had been worth the risk to show Shelby Bradwell who he really was. She might say yes to him, too. She might be brave enough to love a jumped-up tunnel rat.

     They stood in silence, wrapped in thought, as the platform ratcheted down and clattered to a stop. Shelby waited a moment while her eyes adjusted to the sudden change in lighting. It took a few minutes more for her brain to process what she was seeing.

     “Shelby,” Malcolm said, breaking her trance. “We have to get off the platform. Someone else needs it further down.”

     “Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” Shelby mumbled and took a step forward, over the gap that fell into darkness. She was mesmerized.

     The freight elevator shaft had opened up to a very large space, carved from the bedrock, but not, apparently, all of it by the hand of man. The ceiling glittered with stalactites, shiny with damp, and reflecting the steady light of the electric bulbs strung across the space into jeweled fragments of color. The far walls were whitewashed down to where a wainscoting would be and below that line, the walls of the cavern were thick with green moss, undulating over the rock below, like a hedge carved from stone. There were many people, all ages, going about their business. Many looked up to witness the new arrivals. From their expressions, Shelby knew that Malcolm was known, and welcomed, and perhaps, she would be too, since she was with him.

     There were children, running and playing games, just like the kids she sketched in the parks in Dome Two.

     The walls of the cavern, about the size of the White Elephant’s ballroom, had a number of carved openings that led somewhere else. It was almost, Shelby decided, like the doors and windows of the ballroom. This was a gathering space, with far more living space wrapped around it. It was impossible to tell how much larger the Steelio warren was. There could even be more large areas like this one.

     “Is this…?” her voice trailed off, not knowing quite what she wanted to say and not wanting to sound even more naïve than she already had. She didn’t let go of Malcolm’s hand, tightening her fingers around his again.

     “This is the main entrance to Steelio,” Malcolm said, interpreting her unspoken question. “We’ll be going down the second tunnel to the left. It’s the one with the blue and yellow lines painted around it.”

     “Are those terraformers?” Shelby asked, gazing at the vividly green pretend-wainscoting. Live plants, down here, deep below the surface. She had convinced herself that nothing lived below the surface other than humans.

     “Yes, they grow everywhere there’s light, even artificial light,” Malcolm said. “We let them grow wherever possible. They freshen the air and make it nicer. Let’s go look.”

     He led her over to the wall, weaving between the bystanders, all of whom he knew by name. At the wall, next to the tunnel opening framed in blue and yellow lines, he stopped. Shelby gently stroked the wall and the thick moss was as soft as any she had ever felt. Up close, it was covered with tiny stars of paler green. A flick of red movement startled her and she gasped.

     “What was that?”

     “A cave salamander,” Malcolm said. “They eat the insects that live in the moss.”

     “They _live_ down here?”

     “Sure do. They’re shy and don’t like to be touched, otherwise the kids down here would make pets of them. They’ll bite too.”

     “Wait. There are other things, insects down here?”

     “Yes, not just people. We brought life with us down into the tunnels and the bedrock has accepted all of us.”

     Shelby stood back up, her confusion showing. “I thought rocks were dead.”

     “They’re not dead,” Malcolm replied. “Rock isn’t alive like a human or a salamander or a” -- he stopped and quirked a smile at her -- “a pet chicken, but it isn’t dead either. It’s different. The time scale rock lives at is almost forever. It’s hard to explain but you get a feel for it, living so close to the bones of Mars.”

     Shelby puzzled over this, finally seizing on a point she could argue.

     “You say the rock is alive?”

     Malcolm hemmed for a moment as he tried to explain what he had grasped from living so close to the bones of the world. “Not exactly. But rock changes, it grows over eons, and over eons, it can become something else again, as if it were alive. There are hundreds of different kinds and they lace among each other, like thread in cloth sometimes. Other times, you find only one kind of rock, laying on top of another with a clear line between them, like blankets on a bed. You get a feel for stone, living so close to it. I don’t know many people who live on the surface and never come below can understand.”

     “It, I mean, the rocks, don’t, um, mind?”

     “Mind what?”

     “You dig it out, you bore holes through it. You rip minerals out of it and haul them away to the surface where they go someplace else.” Shelby chewed on her lip trying to express what she felt but didn’t have words for. “You use it and it has no choice.”

     Malcolm watched Shelby’s white teeth biting into her full lower lip. The only thought in his head was how it would feel to kiss her and feel those soft, ripe lips under his own. He wrenched his attention back to what she was saying.

     “I don’t know that rock minds, exactly,” he began. “The time scales have nothing in common, the regular living world and the stone one. I believe, we believe that stones are aware in a way we can’t understand. And there are things that live here, in the deepdown, besides what we humans introduced.”

     “The salamanders?” Shelby asked, her eyebrows raised up into her fluffy nimbus of hair.

     “It’s complicated. Mars was alive before Olde Earthe began terraforming it. Since then, we’ve changed Mars as it has changed us. We’ve also, uh…,” he stopped, then started again. “We’ve awakened things.”

     Shelby took that in. “That’s scary.”

     “Not if you’re respectful.” He watched her think that over, discordant emotions flashing across her face, and changed the subject at once.

     “Let’s go meet my family. They’re waiting on us in our quarters.”

     Shelby’s mouth dropped open in disbelief.

     “You want me to meet your family?”

     Malcolm stiffened. She was going to say something vicious about having to associate with the people who slaved below, doing some of the dirtiest, hardest work in Panschin.

     Her face bloomed in a huge smile. “I would so pleased.”

     Shelby followed him into the tunnel opening, edged all around in blue and yellow lines, her mind whirling. His family. Mr. Cobb, no, Malcolm, wanted her to meet his family. That hadn’t happened since her father’s disgrace, when the steady stream of invitations had vanished. He was a banker, but he was also a scholarship boy, up from the mines. That made his offer even more unusual, since he had more to lose by associating with the daughter of the notorious Simon Bradwell. Did he know whose daughter she was? She fretted for a moment and decided that if he didn’t bring up the subject, she had to. To do otherwise was unfair to him. Her downfall was complete and she’d never be accepted again in Panschin’s polite society. Any doubts on that score had been settled by the end of the gallery-showing at the White Elephant. But Malcolm, he had a career ahead of him, a career that had already taken him from the deepdown and onto the surface. He had to understand that associating with her could stop his career in its tracks just as thoroughly as anything Mr. Burgess could do.

     Malcolm was floored. Shelby wanted to meet his family and she meant it. His beautiful Dome Two princess wasn’t just being polite. She was looking forward to meeting his family as though they mattered, as though he was giving her a precious gift. His mind whirled as they walked down the passageway, lit overhead here and there by tiny electric lights, the light reflecting off the whitewashed upper walls and ceiling. The memory of how she had been treated at the gallery showing reared itself up and he realized it was a gift. No one in that world considered Shelby Bradwell to be worth wasting consideration on. Even that mazhor, Kip McGrant, had been unpleasant to her, despite being the only student in the Collective who agreed to come down into the warren. The thought of Kip brought on an avalanche of jealous fury, startling in its intensity. That fool wouldn’t invite Shelby to meet his family, ever. There was something there, from the case study of Simon Bradwell about his interaction with the McGrant family, but Malcolm couldn’t remember with Shelby’s hand so warm in his, the delicate scent of her hair filling his nostrils, the rise and fall of her breast with her breathing.

     Malcolm was so distracted that he almost went past the curtained door opening to his family’s quarters. He caught himself in time and said,

     “Here we are.” Then he sang out, “knock, knock.”

     Shelby puzzled for a moment and realized that there was no door, just the heavy, patched curtain. Malcolm’s greeting was an acknowledgment of reality while still allowing privacy. The curtain was jerked aside, by someone who had obviously been waiting for them, and she forgot her speculations as she stepped into his family’s home.

     The room was small, with whitewashed walls and ceilings and a moss wainscoting. Bright rag rugs covered the floor, helping to warm and soften the otherwise cool space. There were two other curtained doorways opening off the small room. Low benches ran along one wall, pulled away from the terraformers behind it. Behind the benches, an assortment of what looked like pictures cut from magazines were tacked to the walls. Shelby didn’t have time to observe further. The room was full of people of all ages, all wearing Steelio coveralls, and they all wanted to meet her.

     Malcolm made the introductions. Shelby concentrated, hoping she’d remember everyone’s names. She hadn’t had a welcome like this since before her father had been arrested. The noise settled down, and she found herself seated at the table, with Malcolm sitting next to her.

     The questions came thick and fast about did she really draw? Was she a real artist? Had she brought anything to show them from the Collective? Would she like something to eat? What did people eat in the domes? What was it like to live in a big house inside one of the domes? Didn’t that huge glassteel bubble over her head bother her? All that space instead of a cozy tunnel must be so frightening!

     Malcolm watched Shelby handling herself with aplomb, friendly and open and happy to be there. Finally, a question arose that Shelby couldn’t answer.

     “Where is everyone else?” one of the kids piped up, asking the question the adults had been carefully avoiding. “Our Malcolm said he’d bring a lot of artists.”

     Shelby smiled uncomfortably. “No one else in the Collective was able to come down, except Kip, I mean, and he got, uh,” she looked over to Malcolm for the right phrase.

     “Kip developed surface sickness,” Malcolm said. “He got as far as the freight elevator. Fortunately, we ran into Jeffen. He took Kip back up topside.”

     “That’s too bad,” an older man said. Shelby was fairly sure he was Malcolm’s father, based on the resemblance and the warmth between them. It reminded her of her own father, funny and caring, before everything had happened. She had a sudden flash of intense envy. He still had his parents while hers were gone. The memory ripped at her and she had to blink back sudden tears. To her surprise, Malcolm noticed her flash of distress.

     “This must be all so overwhelming for you, Shelby. Do you need to take a break?” he whispered to her.

     She smiled up at him. “No, you’re so blessed. You have your whole family still with you. I miss my parents so much sometimes, even my dad. Seeing your family all together, it reminded me again.”

     “Yes, we’ve been very fortunate,” he answered quietly. “No one lost to injury or death.”

     At last the question came that she had been dreading. “Did you bring your own drawings?” The woman speaking, an aunt perhaps? had been eying her satchel, tucked up against her legs and securely closed. “I’d really love to see them.”

     This was it. She would have to show her own, inadequate drawings to Malcolm’s family and they would recognize her for the fraud she was, as fraudulent as her father. Shelby grabbed for the memory of Mrs. Grisson’s happiness with the drawings of her grandchildren, traded for eggs. _She_ had been delighted and said so, over and over. These people, Malcolm’s family, might be equally generous. They wouldn’t rip her apart the way Professor Vitebskin or the other members of the Collective would if they saw what she really liked to draw.

     Malcolm felt her stiffen against him. He had no idea what Shelby actually drew, or in fact, if she was much good at drawing at all. The only thing he had to go on was observing her sketching flowers in Dome Two and her horrible painting at the gallery showing. Still, there was her drawing of the thug who had threatened her. Shelby had captured him with a few lines and some shading, bringing his menace to life with pencil on paper. If she could do that, then she could draw like he had always believed real artists could and she wasn’t wasting paint like the rest of the PanU Artists’ Collective so obviously did.

     “Uh, of course,” Shelby said after an agonized moment of hesitation. “I’m not very good though, not like the rest of the Collective.”

     She opened her satchel and pulled out her most recent sketchbook and opened it to a full-page drawing of a planter of flowers. Malcolm recognized them at once as being the purple and yellow ones. Shelby had called them pansies. Even though she had drawn them with pencil in shades of gray, the idea of their colors still came through, their resemblance to odd smiling faces clear.

     Shelby smiled weakly as the crowd in the small room gathered around to stare in confusion.

     “Oh, they’re flowers!” the aunt said suddenly. “I cut those pictures out from magazines.”

     After that, the responses filled the room.

     “I’ve only ever seen pictures.”

     “Did you draw them from a magazine?”

     “What color are they really?”

     “Do you see real flowers in Dome Two? How blessed you are.”

     “I’ve seen flowers like that. Steelio has a planter in their infirmary, just like your picture.”

     “Do you draw people?”

     “Do you draw animals?”

     “Do you draw kittens?”

     “Yes, I draw all of those things,” Shelby answered.

     “She draws clouds too,” Malcolm added. “Shelby told Jeffen on the lift.”

     The demand was immediate. “Show us!”

     Shelby began fanning out the pages slowly so everyone could see, marveling all the while at the pleased response. She knew that every one of her subjects were considered to be a demonstration of venal hackwork, the sort used to sell products in adverts or to illustrate twee stories in magazines. She had quickly learned to never show any of her drawings at PanU as her representational style brought only sneers at her bourgeoise mind, backwardness, and complete lack of imagination. Only the drawing instructor, residing at the bottom of the PanU art department hierarchy, had been encouraging.

     Yet these people, Malcolm’s family, didn’t have the same reaction at all. They, like Mrs. Grisson and her boarders, approved of what she drew. They understood what she was trying to express. They were saying the same things that Veronica, Neza, Florence, and Lulu had said. Shelby had always discounted what her family said about her drawings. They were family and they were supposed to be supportive so their words didn’t mean anything. Malcolm’s family on the other hand, like Mrs. Grisson, weren’t relatives. They could say what they wanted. She thought suddenly of Lulu who could always be counted on to speak the truth, no matter whose feelings she trampled. She liked the drawings. Florence, far more tactful, had been the same. Lulu and Florence weren’t strictly family but they had become part of the Bradwells.

     Maybe, Shelby thought with reluctance, she should have listened to her sister more than she listened to the admonishments of the Collective. She thought of Clyde Monez suddenly. He was still PanU’s most successful art graduate, the only one who earned a living from drawing and painting. All of Professor Vitebskin’s much vaunted protégés lived off of family money. Their art, no matter how lauded, didn’t pay the bills.

     “Could you draw me?” a little girl asked. She was wearing a very worn coverall, cut down from someone’s else’s, probably her mother’s. Someone, probably the same woman, had painstakingly embroidered little rows of triangles and circles around all the closures and hems in bright orange. Shelby realized, based on the color, where the thread must have come from. Whoever remade this child’s coverall had tediously picked apart the Steelio logos to retrieve and reuse the bright orange thread for her own embroidery.

     She smiled down at the tot. “You bet I can. But you’ll have to hold still for a few minutes. Can you do that?”

     “Yeth! I can hold still better than anybody!” the child answered. From behind her, her mother smiled and laughed in amused disbelief.

     “Turn around slowly, sweetie, so I can study you and then when I tell you to, I want you to stop where you are. Ready?” Shelby said.

     “Okay,” the little girl answered and began to slowly spin, her arms outstretched.

     Shelby watched her for two full turns, her favorite pencil in hand and her sketchpad open to the next blank page. There it was, the pose she wanted.

     “Stop now,” she commanded and began to fill the paper with rapid lines, concentrating on capturing life, youth, and a vivid joy in being alive.

     From his position next to her, Malcolm watched in fascination as his little niece appeared on the page in sweeping lines and soft shadings. Shelby Bradwell really could draw. He could not figure out why she was wasting all this skill at PanU, painting sludge or why she was discounting her own abilities. Was this another aspect of the gaps in his education, being unable to appreciate art that revealed nothing of the world around him? Or, perhaps, it was an example of why the free-city of Panschin needed to educate talented members of the working class: the upper classes really had gone soft in the head and their taste in art was proof.

     The little girl began to wiggle. “Are you done? Can I see?”

     “Not yet, sweetie,” Shelby said. “Wriggle all over and then stand the same way you did before. Can you remember how you held your arms?”

     “Course I can,” the tot answered.

     Shelby and Malcolm’s niece took several more breaks and her drawing grew in complexity. As she drew, Shelby mentally thanked her sister for arranging for her to draw Mrs. Grisson’s grandchildren in exchange for eggs. Mrs. Grisson’s youngest grandchildren had been just as eager to run and jump, giving her practice in using models who couldn’t hold still.

     She shaded in the last parts of the child’s loose ponytail and said, “done.”

     Shelby flipped over the sketchpad for her fascinated audience. To her amazement and delight, everyone there was delighted and said so.

     “Could you draw me next?” a little boy asked. His mother stood behind him looking eager.

     “Of course,” Shelby replied and ripped out the finished drawing, and then handed it to the little girl’s joyful mother.

     The rest of the afternoon passed quickly as Shelby drew two more of the children in the room while the adults in Malcolm’s family talked, talked, and talked some more about life in the Steelio warrens, what they did, and how proud they were of our Malcolm. As they spoke, they also kept offering Shelby tea and little blocks of yeast, similar to what she ate at home every day. The conversation swirled around her, a low friendly buzz that wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

     A gong sounded from outside their quarters, startling Shelby from her trance. She had been working out just the right angle of a cousin’s tilted head and how to shade her hair so the curls stood out.

     “Ah,” Malcolm said. “Shift change is coming up. Shelby, we’ll need to get you home.”

     “I’m not finished,” Shelby said, looking up at him with annoyance. “I’m not even a quarter of the way done with Cindy.”

     “I know, but my family have to get ready to go to work and I have to get you home before it gets much later.”

     Shelby surprised herself with a sudden, huge yawn and flushed with embarrassment. “Excuse me, please.”

     “Not a problem,” one of Malcolm’s relatives announced. “We’ve been working you too hard.”

     Shelby looked over her sketch of Cindy, the bare bones waiting to be fleshed out into vivid life. “I’ll have to come back to finish.” She looked up at Malcolm. “Would that be all right with you and your family?”

     He smiled at her, his face alight with approval. “Yes, whenever it suits you.”

     Gods below but she was as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. He ignored the significant glances and speculative whispers his hyper-alert relatives were trading back and forth. They had been after him for some time now to settle down and marry, not understanding the bind he was in. A girl from the tunnels would never be accepted in his new, aboveground life. A girl from the class he aspired to would never accept his background and past. Shelby Bradwell looked to them to be the answer to their prayers. And, perhaps, she would be. He could hope. He could also hope that Shelby wouldn’t notice his mother’s eager expression.

     Shelby beamed at him, then stretched and wiggled her fingers loose. She was suddenly very tired and swallowed another yawn. Malcolm stood up and reached his hand to her, lifting her to her feet. She was struck again at how concerned he was about her in a way that no one outside of her family had been for a long, long time. Maybe he did mean to help them in escaping the wrath of Mr. Burgess. Perhaps, she reflected as she held onto his hand longer than necessary, he would help them with that awful goon too. It could happen.

     “Knock, knock” a voice called from outside. “It’s Jeffen.”

     “Come on in,” Malcolm’s father answered promptly and he got up to usher Jeffen inside.

     “Oh! I completely forgot about Kip,” Shelby gasped. “Thank you so much, Jeffen, for helping him. How is he?”

     Malcolm had to push back another wave of jealousy over Kip’s position in Shelby’s life. He reminded himself that she was showing concern over another student, the only one brave enough to venture outside of his familiar world and into the deepdown. He had to stifle a smug laugh. Kip McGrant, despite his family’s business needs, would never travel into the deepdown again. He was physically unable to do so and that made him instantly useless to the McGrant family and their controlling interest in Chung/Banerjee. Served him right for being so hateful to Shelby. The thought struck him. Then why had Kip agreed to come along when no one else did? He would have to find out.

     Jeffen turned his body so Shelby couldn’t see (although everyone else could) and twisted his fingers at Malcolm. More than one relative reared back and clapped their hands over their younger children’s eyes.

     He said, “Kippy’s all right, Miss Bradwell. I got him all the way back up to the surface and then on to Dome Six and the infirmary. He’s probably got a nurse hovering around him right this minute, fluffing his pillows, bathing his forehead, and bringing him his medicinal tea.”

     Shelby looked appalled. “He was that ill with surface sickness?”

     “I wouldn’t say that,” Jeffen replied dryly. “ _He_ might have thought he was, but anyone else would have gone back to work once the shakes wore off, which they did as soon as we hit surface, and he’d had a nice cup of tea and a bun.”

     “But you were gone for hours,” Shelby said, suddenly realizing how long she had been enjoying being surrounded by Malcolm’s family. She felt a rush of guilt over not thinking once about Kip.

     “Yeah, about that,” Jeffen said. He made a face. “The McGrant family is kind of important, Kippy knows it, and he insisted on my taking him all the way to the infirmary in Dome Six even though Dome Three was close and the local nurse station in the metro was even closer, he refused to go back to Dome Two and PanU and their infirmary and be embarrassed over running out on you, and when we finally got to Dome Six, I got to tell the local cop shop all about his adventures underground because, well, a nice young man like Kip McGrant wasn’t the type to go slumming with the likes of me.”

     Shelby’s face hardened. “Kip complained about you helping him?”

     “Him getting surface sickness had to be somebody’s fault.”

     “I am so sorry, Jeffen,” Shelby said. “I will talk to Kip tomorrow, first thing.”

     “Not to worry,” Jeffen said easily. “I got it straightened out. Fortunately, one of the lads at the Dome Six substation has a relative working for Steelio and he’d already heard the story about Malcolm inviting some PanU art students into the warren.”

     “Oh.” Shelby wanted to cringe. Another set of people were gossiping about her. At least they weren’t, she hoped, being vicious and bringing up past family crimes.

     “I owe you, Jeffen,” Malcolm said. It was fortunate Shelby hadn’t seen Jeffen’s stunningly rude hand gesture and even better that she probably wouldn’t have understood it if she had. Kip must have whined every step of the way. Jeffen probably had to carry him up the stairs between levels in the metro station. He wondered what the favor would cost him. Jeffen was not the type to let anything slide, ever.

     “Damn right you do.”

     “Jeffen. Malcolm doesn’t owe you anything,” Shelby said firmly. She frowned at Malcolm to make sure he understood she meant it and turned her attention back to Jeffen to be sure he understood as well. “You did this favor for _me_. Kip’s my friend, or well, he used to be.” She bit her lip again, thinking over what she could afford and Jeffen might accept. “Could I give you a cloud painting to say thank you?”

     Jeffen’s face lit up. “Me and my wife would love one.”

     Shelby said, “I have one that I’ve been working on.” She glanced shyly over at Malcolm. “If Malcolm wouldn’t mind escorting me again into the warren, I could bring it over to you and your wife so you could see if you like it.”

     Malcolm smiled at her warmly, an expression that every member of his family old enough to walk noticed, leading to even more speculative glances and whispers. He ignored them. “A lovely idea, Shelby. I didn’t know you painted clouds.”

     She flushed with embarrassed pleasure. “Yes, I’ve really learned a lot from Professor Vitebskin about layering color in translucent washes. I could never show this painting at PanU because, well, you saw the gallery showing. But it turns out his techniques work really well for other subjects too. I’ve been able to make clouds that look so real, floating above the world. Like you could touch them.”

     “That sounds great,” Jeffen said. “I’ll talk to my wife and to Malcolm and we’ll set a time.”

     “Time,” Shelby said suddenly. “I’ve got to get home. Veronica will worry.” She turned and said, “thank you all so much for hosting me. You’ve been so generous.”

     “It was our pleasure to meet you, Shelby,” Malcolm’s mother answered warmly. “You’re welcome to return any time.”

     “I have to,” Shelby laughed. “I have to finish Cindy’s portrait.”

     “So you do,” Malcolm’s mother returned. She looked very pleased with the idea, along with the rest of his family.

     For his part, Malcolm knew that on his next visit, he’d be quizzed extensively about his relationship with Shelby Bradwell, what he planned to do about moving it forward, and why was he hesitating in the first place? She was such a nice girl and he wasn’t getting any younger and it was time, dammit, for him to do his duty to the family, despite the fact that he was no longer a daily part of it or the Steelio warren. He looked over at Shelby, packing her satchel and laughing with his family, and any concerns about their interrogation evaporated like condensation on the dome.

     “She’s a nice girl,” Jeffen whispered to Malcolm. “Damn good-looking too. But isn’t she Simon Bradwell’s daughter?”

     Malcolm whispered back, “and if she is?”

     “I know you got ambitions. You’re not coming back to slave in the deepdown with the rest of us, not if you can help it.”

     “I’m not concerned and how did you know about her family anyway?”

     “You’re not the only one around here with ambitions who can read a newspaper,” Jeffen replied. “Simon Bradwell’s daughter isn’t going to make you fit in better with the banking crowd.”

     “I don’t fit in with them now and what business is it of yours?”

     “I’m just reminding you of reality, Malcolm,” Jeffen said. “Like I said, you’re not the only one with ambitions.” He held up his left hand, angling it so Malcolm could see the small blue circle tattooed on the underside of his wrist.

     “I’d heard you joined,” Malcolm said.

     “Nobody offered me a scholarship. And I’ll take Miss Bradwell’s cloud painting in lieu of what you owe me for hauling that mazhor’s ass up to the surface.”

     Malcolm filed away Jeffen’s blue circle, thinking hard. He could use this information but he’d have to be very careful. “I appreciate that. And what will little Kippy McGrant owe you?’

     Jeffen smiled, showing every one of his sharp teeth. “He’ll find out. When I need him to.”

*****

     Going back up the freight elevator turned out to be much easier than coming down had been. Shelby still held Malcolm’s warm, strong hand in her own, thinking how gracious he had been and how his family had welcomed her. Would it matter if they knew she was Simon Bradwell’s daughter? She would have to tell Malcolm. It might matter very much to him. Her lineage would only hurt him in the banking industry. Despite his generosity, he might still back Mr. Burgess and throw them all out of the White Elephant.

     She gave herself a mental shake. She was being overly dramatic again. Thinking logically, Malcolm might not be interested in her as a woman since he really did seem to want to know more about the art world – the thought was suddenly disheartening – but he did not like Mr. Burgess at all and for his part, Burgess despised Malcolm. Maybe because he was a scholarship boy? Based on her own experiences at PanU, Shelby could see how much that would matter. Quite a few people, and it didn’t matter what their social station was, never forgave and they never forgot when someone else tried to change their own place in the hierarchy. But Malcolm might not care about her background. It was a pleasant thought. And she could help him understand the fine art world better, something that might be useful to him in his career.

     When they reached the upper station level, Malcolm took a quick look at the schedule.

     “We’ll have to wait for our tube. Would you like some tea and a sandwich, Shelby? This café has very nice tea buns to go with. My treat, of course.”

     She took a look around the crowded, noisy, dirty concourse. She would have never felt safe in a place like this on her own, but Malcolm made her feel at home.

     She gazed up at his dark eyes, wanting to fall into them, and said, “oh yes. That would be wonderful.”

 


	20. the leaves on the path (glisten with our return)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but the shadows are still ever creeping
> 
> OR: Shelby comes home to the White Elephant with Malcolm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what even are titles, man

     Veronica paced back and forth, using all the aboveground floors of the White Elephant and its tiny garden to work off her anxiety. Outside, she worked her way up and down each of the raked gravel paths, circling inside the low wall and then went back into the house. Inside, she found herself peering out of all the windows in turn and listening for the shriek of the gate. She had walked the perimeter of the rooftop terrace several times, to get a better view of the surrounding streets, hoping to catch a glimpse of her sister coming home. All she saw were the scatterings of the usual residents coming and going, along with the usual people on their way to and from the Dome Two business district.

     She did not see who she wanted to see.

     Where was Shelby? She’d been gone for hours.

     Veronica could feel her anxiety rising and choking her. What if Malcolm Cobb had lied? They knew nothing about him, other than where he worked. It was all very well for Mr. Jones to say they could go to Mr. Cobb’s boss if her sister didn’t return but what good would that do if Shelby was lying dead at the bottom of some mineshaft?

     “Veronica,” Neza said sharply from her position in the dining room. “You’re going to wear a rut in the rug.”

     “Shelby should be home by now!”

     “She’ll be fine. She’s got the Collective with her.”

     “Exactly my point,” Veronica snapped, rounding onto her aunt. “The Collective should have driven Mr. Cobb and the entire Steelio warren insane by now, been thrown out by the residents, and Shelby would be home safely.”

     Neza laughed heartily. “Now who’s letting her imagination run away with her? That sounds like something your sister would say.”

     Lulu came around from the kitchen carrying, unusually for her, a tray with cups of tea on it. She wore a longsuffering expression. “Shelby will be fine. Steelio is very respectable. It’s not like Mr. Cobb took her and the Collective into the tunnel bars under Dome Four.”

     Veronica accepted the peace offering, took a calming sip, and said, “but we don’t know he didn’t!”

     Lulu groaned and rolled her eyes. “Quit panicking, Veronica. That’s something Shelby would say. Mr. Cobb is a banker. He’s never gone lower down in Panschin than the upper level of the transtubes. He couldn’t find Dome Four without a guide let alone the tunnel levels underneath it.”

     Florence appeared with another tray, this one holding the last of the algae dumplings from the gallery showing. Mysteriously, Mr. Jones from Barsoom and his party hadn’t touched this Panschin favorite although they had eaten everything else laid out for their breakfast.

     “Eat something. You’ll feel better. Veronica, I can go to the Steelio warrens with Evan to look for Shelby and,” Florence frowned at the tray in distaste, “the rest of the Collective.”

     “I’ll go too,” Lulu said. “I’ve never been to Steelio’s warren before but it’s not that big. Shelby will be easy to find.”

     “How do you know?” Neza asked, genuinely curious and wanting to derail Veronica’s train of thought.

     From the look on her niece’s face, it was obvious to Neza that Veronica was wondering if Lulu and Florence would be lost underground as well and if she should go along and not wait for Shelby to appear. But if she, Veronica, went, who would be available to call the police? And would they come since they were undoubtedly trying to suppress bar fights when they weren’t arresting muggers and pickpockets? And what if that thug came back? What then?

     “A good question,” Veronica said, grasping for reassurance that would allow her to stay at the White Elephant with Neza while still taking care of her little sister. “How do you know you could find Shelby?”

     She picked up a dumpling and began nibbling on it carefully. They were even better the second day when the flavors had time to meld.

     Lulu snickered. “Outsiders from PanU coming into a warren? Every single person there will be talking about it for the next year, hashing over every last detail. It won’t be hard.”

     The gate shrieked its warning and all four women turned as one towards the front door.

     Veronica swallowed the last bite, leaped to her feet and ran to the front door and threw both sides open to the gathering dusk. Evening in the Dome was a protracted affair, taking hours and hours to work itself from the afternoon sun to full night. Every light burning inside Dome Two reflected off the underside of the dome so it never got completely dark until after everyone had gone to bed, including the various street denizens. Dome Two went totally dark only during the endless nights during the deepest part of the winter and only after the bars closed down. It was the only dome that did, the other domes always enjoying residual light from businesses and homes. Dome Six, like Dome Four, never went dark at all. There was always plenty of ambient light to see your path clearly, read signs, and conduct your business.

     It wasn’t Shelby coming down the raked white gravel path towards her, casting long shadows in the early twilight.

     Instead it was Mr. Jones and his party.

     Veronica wanted to tear her hair out in dismay. It was good he had returned to the White Elephant since it did mean that she, her aunt, Lulu, and Florence wouldn’t be alone but that led directly to Mr. Jones’ statement that Shelby would be fine and she wasn’t.

     Airik strode up the walkway and noticed at once that Veronica was upset and agitated.

     “Miss Bradwell,” he called out, quickening his pace. It had been a pleasure to return to Dome Two after the day he had endured, fending off suspect business arrangements and unwanted marriage proposals, all of which were detrimental to Shelleen in both the short and the long term. “What seems to be the problem?”

     “Shelby’s not back yet, Mr. Jones. We don’t have any idea where she is.”

     “Ah,” Mr. Jones replied. “I understand this is upsetting. However, recall Mr. Cobb invited the entire PanU Artists’ Collective with him. It may take him some time to get the flock rounded up and herded back to PanU.”

     Veronica caught his implication and was momentarily distracted. “The Collective being like sheep?”

     “They are a Collective, after all,” Airik replied. “They act in unison. I observed little individuality between them during the gallery show. Despite their protests of nonconformity, their clothing, conversation, and painting styles were remarkably uniform. Thus, sheep.”

     Despite her nervousness, she had to laugh. “With Mr. Cobb being their shepherd, I suppose?”

     “A thankless task, I am sure,” Airik said. “If Shelby does not return soon, I will go myself to Steelio.” His heart sang. He had managed, somehow, to make Veronica Bradwell laugh again. She genuinely thought he had a sense of humor. Unlike all the other young women he had been introduced to since becoming the daimyo, she alone had no financial or matrimonial reason to laugh, yet she still did.

     Upton, who had been waiting eagerly to get inside and put down the heavy satchel full of reports and the heavier typewriter case, stared at Airik in consternation. Airik had made such a fuss about his anonymity and here he was, volunteering to reveal himself? Nunzio and Eliot, bringing up the rear, exchanged glances but, good servants that they were, said nothing.

     “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Jones,” Veronica said in astonishment. “But how could you get into the warren?”

     “I met a representative of Steelio yesterday during a business meeting. I’m sure I can arrange to visit their warrens.”

     “I, yes, I would very much appreciate it, Mr. Jones,” Veronica said. “Please, come inside.”

     She didn’t add her other, worse fear. What if that thug had spotted and kidnapped her little sister sometime during the day? He was still out there and it didn’t look like the police were going to be as helpful as she had expected. Nobody at PanU would notice or care if Shelby showed up or not. Mr. Cobb could have taken the Collective down under into the Steelio warrens without Shelby, since his offer had been to the Collective as a whole and not to her, personally. Would he care enough about Shelby to check on her whereabouts if she were missing?

     Upton sneezed violently, then kept on sneezing. He had enough presence of mind to clutch the typewriter case, but let his satchel of briefing papers drop to the ground. Paper wouldn’t break and it was cheap. Fortunately, the satchel was tightly buckled, sparing him the embarrassment of having to pick strewn papers up and sort them back into order.

     “Oh lordy,” Veronica said, distracted again but this time because a paying guest came first. “Panschin is getting to you. Let’s get you inside with a cup of tea to open up your sinuses. Luckily, Lulu has already got the water hot.”

     The Jones party made their way to the dining room, Veronica got them seated, and as she was pouring fresh hot tea, she heard the gate shriek its alarm.

     “Shelby at last! Excuse me, please,” Veronica said and raced to the front door. Airik got up and followed her, choosing not to examine his motives and ignoring the gapes from the rest of his party.

     Veronica got the front door open again and there, strolling up the gravel path to the pink granite doorstep was her former husband.

     He didn’t hesitate, opening his mouth the moment he saw her.

     “Ronnie, we have to talk. It’s critical,” Dean called out to her.

     “What? Whatever it is, it is not critical. And don’t call me Ronnie.”

     “Fine, sweetheart, I really need this. I need you.” He reached the doorstep and reached for her hands, his expression imploring her to understand the depths of his need.

     Veronica rolled her eyes, shoved her hands into her pockets, and stepped back and up against the doorframe.

     “Dean, not now. I’m worried about Shelby and I don’t have time for you. Go away, please.”

     Airik appeared behind her and took in the view of Veronica’s former husband. Interestingly, Dean Kangjuon’s handsomeness seemed somehow off today, compared to the previous evening. There was a slight puffiness around his left eye and across the cheek, as though he had been bruised. But no bruises showed against Dean’s suspiciously perfect complexion. Airik vividly remembered Dean grabbing Veronica’s arm, frowned, and stepped around her to confront him.

     “Leave.”

     Dean took in Airik Jones standing on his former doorstep, blocking the doorway to his former home, alongside his former wife who did not look unhappy over _his_ proximity, and his own face darkened.

     “Ronnie, who is this fool again? A guest? He’s not acting like a guest.”

     “My name is not Ronnie!”

     Airik put his hand on Veronica’s shoulder, a move that generated a flash of smile and made Dean frown still more.

     “Allow me, Miss Bradwell.”

     She nodded her head in approval, a fact both Dean and Airik noted although with opposite emotions. As for Veronica, if Airik Jones wanted to get rid of her ex-husband, then she wouldn’t have to cope with him when Shelby needed her energy more.

     “Mr. Kangjuon, I believe? I am a guest, a distant relative visiting from Barsoom for the mining conferences. The family branches have not been in close touch which is why you don’t know me. Do not cast aspersions upon Miss Bradwell’s character or I shall be forced to throw you over the garden wall into the street.”

     This wasn’t a lie. Airik had heard similar stories about distant relatives many times before so it was easy to reuse the anecdote, and, if you went far out enough on a family tree, it was entirely possible for total strangers to be 12th cousins many times removed. Plus, looking at Dean Kangjuon seething on the doorstep and refusing to pay even the least respect to Miss Bradwell, made him want to not just throw Dean over the garden wall but do it with enough force to shatter Dean’s nose and jaw, permanently marring his handsomeness.

     “You wouldn’t dare, and you couldn’t do it anyway,” Dean blustered to Airik.

     “Actually, I could,” Airik replied.

     He looked Dean over coldly, noting all the usual points on a human body that could be used to incapacitate its owner along with an estimate of Dean’s weight and general fighting prowess. Dean did not stand like a man who had learned how to defend himself. Airik himself diligently practiced his own self-defense lessons since it was both expected and sensible to do so for a man in his position. Bodyguards could only do so much and they could not be with you one hundred percent of the time.

     “That is enough from both of you,” Veronica said, irritated all over again by the gentlemen’s bravado. “Dean, you are offending my guest and I can’t help you. Ask your parents for help. They have money and connections, and as you know very well, I have neither.”

     Dean cast Veronica a pleading look. He peered more closely at Airik’s expression and body language, read the clear intent and stepped back a few paces, further down the walkway, but still close enough to be heard.

     “Look, Ronnie, sweetie, I need you to help me. It has to be you and only you.”

     “A problem, Airik? Miss Bradwell?” Nunzio asked, suddenly looming behind Veronica and Airik in the doorway.

     “No, we’ll be fine, Nunzio,” Airik replied calmly. “Mr. Kangjuon was just leaving.”

     Dean stared up at Nunzio filling the doorway and recognition struck. He had seen this man occupying more than his fair share of space during the gallery showing, watching him closely when he had spoken to Veronica and her supposed guest, Mr. Jones.

     “Fine, have it your way, sweetie. But I really do need you to help me. I’ll come back when you’re not busy,” – Dean paused and smirked salaciously – “‘entertaining’.” He winked at his former wife.

     Veronica reared back as if he had slapped her. “How can you expect me to do anything for you with this attitude?” she snapped. “What is wrong with you?”

     The gate, ignored behind them all, shrieked again.

     “Veronica, I’m home!” Shelby called out. “Dean, what are you doing here?”

     “Yeah, Dean, what are you doing here?” Lulu asked from where she stood at the corner of the house. She had slipped out the kitchen’s back door and ran around the White Elephant when Veronica had gone to answer the front door. Although she wouldn’t dream of admitting it to anyone in the house, the thug’s visits had bothered her and she remained hyperalert to any change in the routine. She patted her hip pocket and showed her teeth to Dean. “Remember my little friend?”

     Dean spread out his hands and said, as contritely as he could manage, “Veronica, my sincere and heartfelt apologies. I’ve been under a lot of stress. I really do need your help.”

     He bowed deeply and gracefully to her, ignoring everyone else as not worth his time. “Later on, perhaps, we can talk when you have more time,” he added and spun on his heel and walked back out of the tiny yard, giving Shelby and Malcolm Cobb a good looking over along with a wide berth.

     Veronica gave Dean one, last puzzled look. What was wrong with her ex-husband? He stopped by on occasion to chat her up, but never two days in a row. He was also never this nasty, other than insisting on calling her ‘Ronnie’ despite everything she said to him on the subject. She shoved that minor concern aside to greet her sister, home safe at last.

     She ran down the gravel walk and met her sister, hugging her tightly.

     “I was so worried! I thought for sure you’d have been back hours ago,” Veronica said. “Were the Collective a problem, driving everyone crazy?”

     Shelby beamed at her. “I’m fine. Everything was great. Malcolm, I mean Mr. Cobb and his family were so welcoming. And no, nobody from the Collective came with us at all, besides Kip, I mean, and he got sick and went home early.”

     Veronica went cold and stepped back. “What? His family? The Collective didn’t show up?” She took a longer look at Malcolm Cobb and stared, becoming aware as she did so, that so was everyone else.

     “Mr. Cobb? What on Mars are you wearing?” Veronica forced out.

     He smiled easily at her. “My Steelio coverall, Miss Bradwell.”

     Lulu ran up, her hand automatically reaching for her hip pocket where she kept her sheathed dagger hidden. She never went anywhere without it and hadn’t since she was a child. The familiar feel of the hilt was always reassuring.

     “You stole someone’s coverall? But you’re a banker!” Lulu said.

     Mr. Jones said “I understood you worked for the Second National Bank of Panschin, Mr. Cobb. Not Steelio and certainly not as a miner.”

     Neza, who had finally made it to the door, said “secondhand stores do sell used coveralls, Lulu. But even so, Mr. Cobb, wearing a Steelio uniform when you don’t merit one is concerning.”

     Florence, from her position at the opened window to the right of the doorway, stared in slack-jawed disbelief. Like Lulu, she was more disturbed than she would admit by the thug’s two visits to the White Elephant and she wanted to be sure she knew what was going on.

     Nunzio, from his vantage point in the doorway, said nothing but felt vindicated. He had noticed Mr. Cobb’s hands during the gallery showing and wondered how much money a banker had to count to earn calluses. He didn’t think there was that much money in the world and he was correct. There wasn’t.

     Malcolm’s smile got broader. No one here had known. He couldn’t believe it. He’d been afraid that wherever he went, whoever he met, they all saw his background as if he wore a flashing sign. He understood, for the first time, that when someone did know his background, it was because they had already heard the story from someone else. He didn’t bear the mark of Cain inked on his face as he had always believed. Even Lulu and Florence, born and bred in the tunnels, had not instantly branded him as an escapee from a warren. Best of all, the daimyo of Shelleen, pretending to be plain Mr. Jones from Barsoom, had not recognized him as an interloper into a class he wasn’t born in and would never belong to.

*****

     Although the various members of the White Elephant household and its guests didn’t notice (being otherwise occupied), Dean was quietly watching from behind a planter spilling over with marigolds to see what happened. He didn’t have any idea who the miner with Shelby was and he couldn’t figure out why Ronnie was so worked up over him. He himself hadn’t seen the man before on the property or anywhere else and he knew everyone who was a regular at the White Elephant.

     More interestingly, where and when had prim little Shelby picked up some prole from the tunnels? She’d always acted like such a prude, and yet here she was, keeping company with some strange man whom she was no doubt servicing on a regular basis. The miner, who did not look like anyone ever told _him_ ‘no’, looked to be almost as big as that damned hulk standing in back of Jones. That was worrying. Dean faded into the twilight, fretting over what it meant. He’d have to be more careful when he next spoke to Ronnie. They needed to be alone.

*****

     “Let me explain,” Malcolm said, wanting to speak before Airik tried to take over the conversation. As long as the daimyo of Shelleen was pretending to be an ordinary citizen, he could learn that meant he didn’t get to have his own way whenever he felt like it. He could damn well wait his turn.

     “Please do,” Veronica said. She was trying to get her thoughts into some kind of order. Mr. Cobb was a banker _and_ a miner? That was impossible, yet here he was wearing a Steelio coverall that not only fit him and showed signs of authentic, hard wear, but also had his name embroidered across his chest.

     “I’d be interested too,” Airik said coolly. He noted Mr. Cobb’s embroidered name, something that wouldn’t normally be stitched other than for a company-supplied uniform or an elaborate masquerade. Mr. Cobb didn’t strike him as being the type to play dress-up. Moreover, his coverall showed he did go underneath regularly, working himself through tight spots and getting filthy. The knee areas had been patched more than once and costumes didn’t get that kind of wear or care.

     Shelby beamed up at Malcolm and then at her sister. “It’s a fascinating story,” she said. “We talked all during the transtube ride and during supper.”

     “I’m a scholarship boy,” Malcolm said. “Steelio likes pulling likely lads from the warren for more challenging positions. My brain” – he tapped his forehead – “got me into banking but I still go into the deepdown when my family needs help.”

     “You’re a scholarship boy?” Lulu interjected, still in shock. “Nobody does that. That’s just lies.”

     “No,” Malcolm replied. “It’s just that not every mine owner cooperates. Chung/Banerjee doesn’t and neither does Jandinaire. There are others, but those two are the worst. They never participate in the Panschin-wide exams whereas some other companies do if they feel like it or they want to curry favor. Steelio always allows the testers in.”

     Florence spoke for the first time. “No surprise with Chung/Banerjee, the rat-fucking bastards. They do nothing for their crews or the families.” Since Florence never swore, all eyes swiveled to her, flushing in furious embarrassment over what came out of her mouth, and then back to Malcolm.

     Airik’s mind raced. “So, you would not recommend either of those companies?”

     Malcolm eyed him carefully. “It depends on what you want.”

     “I’m interested in reliable and effective safety equipment,” Airik said.

     Florence and Lulu both laughed harshly, joined after a moment by Malcolm.

     “No, not them,” Malcolm said. “Not ever.”

     Florence and Lulu both nodded in agreement, both wearing the same lividly angry expression. Airik filed away the information for later use. It went a long way toward explaining why he wasn’t getting the answers he wanted from Jandinaire and why the data he had been provided with had such gaping holes and inconsistencies. Chung/Banerjee was on tomorrow’s schedule. With this new information, he could better determine where they were exaggerating.

     “This is all very fascinating,” Veronica interrupted. “However, _I_ want to know what you did with my sister and where the hellation is the Collective? Why didn’t they come along?”

     “I don’t know,” Shelby said earnestly. “I told Professor Vitebskin and everyone when I got to PanU in the morning. Then when Malcolm, I mean Mr. Cobb arrived, only Kip agreed to go. Everyone else pretended we weren’t there even though Professor Vitebskin was ripping people apart with his critiques. You would have thought people would have been glad to escape. He was just _awful_.”

     Veronica eyed her little sister carefully during her explanation. ‘Malcolm’? Her baby sister was calling the banker who held their lease ‘Malcolm’? What happened to ‘Mr. Cobb’? And Shelby didn’t look the least bit unhappy over having spent hours with Mr. Cobb, either. Almost as though, Veronica’s eyes narrowed, Shelby was starting to fancy him. And from the way the banker was standing closely and smiling at her, Mr. Cobb fancied her sister.

     Better to not ask right now, Veronica decided. This was a conversation best held behind closed doors and away from the guests. Instead she asked, “So Kip McGrant came along? And he got sick?”

     “McGrant?” Florence blurted out. “Those bastards?”

     “Do you know them?” Shelby asked in astonishment. “I didn’t know you knew Kip’s family.”

     “I know McGrant. They own a big chunk of Chung/Banerjee,” Florence said, her face very tense. “When McGrant bought in, things got worse. They wanted everything to be ‘efficient’. They didn’t care what it did to the crew as long as they made quota. I didn’t know Kip was part of that pack. I would have warned you.”

     Shelby’s eyes went very wide. “So that’s why Kip got so nasty about what Malcolm, I mean Mr. Cobb, said about Chung/Banerjee.”

     “Yes,” Malcolm said. “I’d agree.”

     “As I said,” Veronica retorted, “all very fascinating, but what happened? Kip got sick?”

     “He developed surface sickness, Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm replied. “I’d guess that Kip had never been lower down than the upper level of the transtube system. He didn’t know he was susceptible until he went deeper down.”

     “Couldn’t happen to a nicer family,” Florence spat. “He’ll be useless to the McGrant family now, if he can’t go into the deepdown to check up on how hard the crews are working. They don’t trust their own foremen, the sods. They have to see it for themselves and gloat.”

     Veronica said, very patiently, “Where is Kip?”

     “Oh, he’s fine,” Shelby said. “Jeffen took him up to the Dome Six infirmary.”

     “He was that sick? And who is Jeffen?” Veronica asked, letting her exasperation show.

     “Kip thought he was sick, Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm said. “In my experience, once a person with surface sickness goes back up topside, they make a full recovery. As long as Kip never goes below, he’ll never have a problem. And Jeffen is a member of Steelio and an acquaintance of mine. He’s very reliable.”

     “I believe Miss Bradwell’s concern might be her and your liability,” Airik said. “You did, after all, invite the Collective along for the journey and Kip is a member of that flock.”

     Malcolm said, “no worries on that score, Mr. Jones. Surface sickness is well-known in Panschin. Everyone who has it learns the same way Kip did. They go underneath once and never go back. You won’t be sued.”

     Veronica, who hadn’t thought of that possibility at all, gasped and her hand went to the string of cool, cloudy beads around her neck. “Oh lordy. Are you sure?”

     “Yes,” Malcolm replied.

     “Hah! Shows how little you know about Chung/Banerjee and the McGrant family,” Florence said roughly. “They’ll sue. Sorry, Veronica, but you need to know.”

     ‘A lawsuit,’ Veronica thought. ‘Not again, please, dear gods above and below.’

     “Perhaps not,” Airik said calmly. “If such a thing comes to pass, I’m sure I can reason with them.”

     “That’s very considerate of you,” Veronica forced the words out. “But you’re from Barsoom, you’ll be leaving when the conference is over, and I doubt they’ll care what you have to say.”

     “They won’t,” Florence said.

     “Nonetheless,” Airik said. “I will look into it.”

     Malcolm hid his smile. If the daimyo of Shelleen weighed in, then the McGrant family would be put firmly in its place. His smile went away. On the other hand, they could still make trouble for the Bradwell family. There was some faint memory tickling but it refused to surface. And why was Airik Shelleen so concerned anyway? Interesting. The hidden smile came back. Burgess, that fat cave-troll, would find himself at the bottom of a mineshaft if he went after the Bradwells when the daimyo of a demesne was concerned about their wellbeing.

     Veronica swallowed, shuddered, and shoved the unpleasant memories of past lawsuits away to deal with the problem standing in front of her. The court system of Panschin had not been kind to the Bradwell family and now wasn’t the time to rip open that wound.

     Airik was watching her closely and caught her distress. He had not yet read Elliot’s report on the Bradwell family but he could guess it wasn’t going to be pretty. He would have to do something about this potential problem, although he couldn’t think of what, yet, that wouldn’t involve revealing who he was. And why did he want to anyway? He shoved that question back into its little box rather than examine his motives.

     “What did you do all afternoon then, since you didn’t have the Collective with you to tour the Steelio warren?” Veronica asked, hoping for some information that would not make the situation worse.

     “I met Malcolm’s entire family,” Shelby gushed. “I sketched several of their kids, I saw the main entryway, did you know that there’s cave salamanders down there? They’re so pretty, so shiny red against the green moss and they eat bugs. The tunnel entrances are all painted with different colored designs. We talked about what kind of pictures everyone likes, including kittens, and I promised Jeffen my cloud painting in exchange for getting Kip back up to the surface and I have to go back to finish my portrait of Cindy. Oh, Malcolm bought me supper in the metro café too. We had to wait for a transtube.”

     “You have a cloud painting?” Veronica asked, picking out the only detail she could process. “You never showed it to me.”

     “It’s not acceptable for PanU, but I think it’s really good. I didn’t feel comfortable showing it to anyone. Not yet. But I think now I can,” Shelby finished. She glanced over at Malcolm and suddenly looked happier. “I have others.”

     Neza had stood unmoving at the doorway, listening and observing intently. She shifted her weight and couldn’t stop herself from groaning as her stiff joints protested.

     “Oh lordy,” Veronica said. “You’ve been standing all this time. Let’s get everyone inside. You need a nice cup of tea. Florence can you get some of your joint salve for Neza? Lulu? Mr. Jones’ cousin, Upton, probably needs more of your throat tea.”

     She made shooing motions and slowly got everyone herded back inside into the White Elephant, presumably headed to the dining room. Once she was standing alone on the doorstep with Airik Jones, who did not follow the flock, Veronica asked, “could you really throw Dean over the garden wall?”

     “Yes, but it’s a low wall,” Airik said. He thought for a moment. “After a certain height, depending on how he struggled, I would have to have Nunzio’s assistance. For a wall over two meters in height, I would have to construct a catapult or a trebuchet to get the job done. Which one would depend on the materials I had available. That would take some time, of course, so Dean might escape before I finished.”

     Veronica leaned against the doorframe and laughed at his absurd answer. Yet, he meant every word. He wasn’t exaggerating his prowess like Dean would have, nor did he seem to be insulting her own intelligence. “It’s nice to know I can count on you,” she said and smiled at Airik Jones. Maybe he meant what he said about shielding her from a potential lawsuit as well.

     “Is there a difference between catapults and trebuchets, then?” she added.

     “The method of propulsion differs,” Airik said. “I’ll explain on the way to the dining room.” He had made her laugh again. How wonderful.

*****

     Back in the dining room, Shelby made sure to sit next to Malcolm at the large table. Her choice did not go unnoticed by Neza, Florence, or Lulu, who all did their best to discuss it via glances, gestures, and facial expressions so as to not make her uncomfortable with pointed words.

     When Veronica and Airik walked in, Malcolm was explaining more about the Steelio warren, the visit, and Steelio’s participation in various Panschin scholarship programs. Veronica spotted at once how her sister was filling in any blank spots in Malcolm’s conversation, how she leaned into him, how she gazed up at him. Yep, her baby sister definitely fancied Malcolm Cobb.

     It shouldn’t be a surprise, Veronica reflected. Mr. Cobb was a good-looking man, he had clearly taken good care of Shelby, and he was treating her sister with respect. None of the boys at PanU had ever been so considerate. Shelby had finally told her sister about how she was regarded at PanU as they were falling into the bed after the gallery showing. Mr. Cobb had introduced her to his family, something that no one who was anyone would ever do: the memory of how Kip during the show couldn’t be bothered to even introduce Shelby to his family as a fellow student rose up. And he had eaten supper with her at some metro station café. That was, according to Shelby, something no one at PanU had ever bothered to do either. No one would sit with her in public just to chat. Her little sister was persona non grata in every way at PanU because of dear old dad. To have someone pay positive attention to Shelby was like watering a wilting flower. Her joyous response was a given.

     ‘Malcolm Cobb. Lordy,’ Veronica thought. She could only hope that he would continue to see her sister in such a positive light. Maybe, and her thoughts brightened, if Mr. Cobb felt strongly about her sister, he would help the family safe from Mr. Burgess. But could she trust an emotion? Veronica thought of Dean again. No, affections could and did wither when circumstances changed. Damn Dean anyway.

     She sat down at the table, resolving to help Shelby as best she could, when Malcolm Cobb walked away from her and abandoned them to their fate. Not everyone walked away when it got difficult. Neza had not. But Dean had, his family had, their own Bradwell relatives had. All their words of love and affection and familial bonds had proven worthless. Would Mr. Cobb be the same?

     Airik sat next to Veronica, noticing again how her face had saddened with some unpleasant thoughts and how her eyes kept darting towards her sister and the banker. A discrepancy struck him about Mr. Cobb’s narrative. There was a question he could ask for Veronica’s benefit and it would satisfy his own curiosity as well.

     “Mr. Cobb,” Airik asked. “Why have you chosen to reveal your background? No one here knew you came up from the lowest class of Panschin. This information, if widespread, could only harm you in your chosen career. In fact, I would guess it already has, given how Burgess threatened you at the gallery showing.”

     Malcolm gave Airik a penetrating look. “I decided to stop lying. Both to myself and to everyone else. I _am_ a jumped-up tunnel rat. I _am_ a scholarship boy. People will gossip, whatever I do. My actions, my worth, my value to Dome Two and to Panschin are all undercut by lying about my roots. If I lie about them, then why should anyone believe me about anything else?”

     He smiled coolly at Airik. “Particularly when lies about who we are can so easily be found out, Mr. Jones.”

     Airik gave an equally cool look to Malcolm Cobb. “This is true.”

     Cobb might know his true identity, Airik realized. It was a chilling thought. He would not make the mistake of discounting Malcolm Cobb again. Anyone who was intelligent enough to be plucked from the teeming horde in a warren and educated by the free-city of Panschin had to be clever, hardworking, and ambitious. No matter how strong his intellect was, if Malcolm Cobb had been lazy, he would have been tossed back into the deepdown. What then, did Cobb want from him, the daimyo of Shelleen? And why did he choose not to disclose his knowledge?

     “Nonetheless,” Airik continued, “there are sometimes reasons to be less than forthcoming. Persons such as Burgess see only weakness and not strength. They see only a chance to exploit for their own gain and damn the consequences to everyone else.” He glanced around the table, making sure to let his eyes rest on Veronica, Neza, and Shelby.

     Malcolm pursed his lips, as he parsed out the message being given to him by the daimyo of Shelleen. “This is true.”

     Veronica, for her part, wondered what they were talking about. It felt like a code. The conversation between Mr. Cobb and Mr. Jones reminded her of the morning in the bank. She was talking about one thing while Mr. Cobb and Mr. Wong were clearly discussing something else. Aha, she realized. Mr. Wong knew all about Malcolm’s background and he didn’t like it one bit. Damn people anyway. She thought of her father again. His crimes had permanently tainted her and her sister. Mr. Cobb was likewise permanently stained by his background and his own merits, like hers and Shelby’s, mattered not at all.

 


	21. After Shelby comes home and Malcolm reveals himself

     “It’s getting late,” Veronica announced and indeed it was. It took hours for Shelby and Malcolm Cobb to detail their adventures. Her sister -- always sharp-eyed -- kept remembering new incidents and new observations ranging from Malcolm’s reception at PanU, the levels of the metro and its variety of users, the freight elevator, Kip’s behavior, the Steelio warren, and with each one, Mr. Cobb chimed in to amplify what she said. As they did so, they kept beaming at each other as though no one else was in the room.

     ‘Lordy,’ Veronica thought. ‘Young love in action. Was I ever that soppy with Dean? Shelby hardly knows him. We know almost nothing about Mr. Cobb.’

     ‘Is he using Shelby and to what end?’ Airik thought. ‘If so, it will upset Veronica. Why do I care? I shouldn’t care. They’re not my responsibility. But I do.’

     ‘Hmm,’ Neza thought. ‘Not the man I would have chosen for my niece but a banker’s still a banker and he might be able to keep us in our house. Gads, I’m getting cynical in my old age.’

     ‘She could do a lot worse,’ Lulu thought. ‘I was sure she would, falling over the first man who paid her any attention at all.’

     ‘She could do a lot worse,’ Florence thought. ‘Hope he treats her nice and doesn’t use her up and then throw her away like that Upton Jones would.’

     ‘Are those two ever going to shut up so I can go to bed?’ Upton wondered. ‘And what the hell is wrong with Airik?’

     He sneezed violently again and mopped his running nose and streaming eyes with a handkerchief. Lulu kept offering him steaming mugs of the vilest tea he had ever tasted. He drank them because she insisted and, she made it plain, if he didn’t, she’d tip his head back and pour them down his gullet. ‘She’ll make a good nurse,’ Upton thought gloomily as he stared into another cup of hot, muddy, oily liquid well-laced with floating bits of something he preferred not to identify more closely. Lulu’s patients would obey her orders so they could escape faster to the safety of their own homes.

     Elliot and Nunzio’s thoughts ran along the same vein: they didn’t care a bit about Shelby Bradwell and Malcolm Cobb or what they got up to together. My lord Airik was the one who counted and, very strange indeed, he cared a lot over what happened to that pair.

     “Yes, it is,” Malcolm agreed. “Miss Bradwell? I’ll be back in the morning when your sister, Lulu, and Florence head over to PanU.”

     Veronica went still. “Oh? And why is that?”

     “I’ve been asking around about that thug and his boss. I’m sure the police have too. There’s no sign of them anywhere. That’s worrisome,” Malcolm replied.

     “Panschin is the second largest city on Mars,” Airik said. “I wouldn’t expect instant results from a search.”

     “You don’t know Panschin,” Malcolm said. “The domes and the tunnels are each like self-contained cities. Even in Dome Six, with all the hotels, outsiders are kept close track of if only so the hotel can extract more money for services. There’s no hiding in a smaller dome like Three or Five. Besides, mugged visitors are bad for business.”

     “But the Biennial Mining Conference,” Veronica said and the implication struck her. Hordes of strangers had descended on the city. How could anyone keep track of them all? It would be easy to hide in the mob.

     “Yes, it’s huge,” Malcolm said. “But all those visitors have to stay somewhere. Every hotel in every dome in Panschin is full up. The thing is, even among the mining crowd, guys like that thug stand out in a hotel and, as outsiders, they won’t be underneath in any of the tunnel lodging. They’d stand out even more.”

     “There are hotels in the tunnels and the warrens?” Airik asked. He hadn’t thought of the possibilities for persons who did not want to be noticed.

     “Not exactly,” Malcolm said. Lulu and Florence both nodded in agreement as he spoke. “What happens is a visitor might stay somewhere underneath but only if they know how to get there in the first place. That thug and his boss won’t be sleeping in a mining company barracks unless they sign on and then they’ll be working constantly, not running around like tourists. Warrens like Steelio only allow relatives of residents. No outsiders. Causes trouble. And they’re not sleeping in any of the parks. That’s an instant arrest if you get caught.”

     “So where would they be?” Veronica asked, her hand at her string of cloudy beads again.

     “I don’t know,” Malcolm said. “It’s possible they’re squatting in one of the abandoned houses here in Dome Two, but they have to come outside to get food and water and everyone in Dome Two is on the lookout. It’s almost as though they’re hiding in some private home. But squatting seems more likely.”

     He looked over the table of people. “I will be by in the morning and then go to the bank. I should be able to walk Shelby and her friends home in the afternoon as well.”

     “Guess you’ll get to meet Trevor and Evan,” Lulu said. “They’re coming over tomorrow morning too.”

     “Our boyfriends,” Florence added pointedly, wanting to make it clear to Upton (in case he recovered) that she wasn’t available. Better to be safe than sorry with him and his roving eyes. She was glad again that Malcolm Cobb showed up. Shelby was naïve enough to believe a cad like Upton Jones meant the lies he told to get her into bed.

     “I have some work to do here in the morning,” Airik said. “We won’t be leaving for the conference until I’m finished. We’ll be back in the early evening.”

     “Then it’s settled,” Veronica said and stood up. She was already making her plans to interrogate her sister, once all the witnesses had vanished. With Mr. Cobb, Trevor, and Evan walking her sister to PanU, she didn’t have to fret over any kidnappings. Squatting in Dome Two. She repressed a shudder. So, Mr. Cobb also believed that was a possibility and not just because he fancied Shelby and wanted to see more of her.

*****

     With everyone gone, the White Elephant locked up for the night, and all the guests tucked up into their rooms, Veronica was at last able to corner Shelby. They shared a room so there was no escape. As soon as she closed the door, she couldn’t stop herself.

     “You have gone crazy,” Veronica snarled. “Mr. Cobb? He only wants one thing and once he’s got it, we’re out in the cold!”

     Veronica wanted to bite her tongue off. She had planned on calm and rational reasoning with her sister, not ensuring Shelby would never listen to her again.

     “He does not! Malcolm was a perfect gentleman, unlike plenty of other men I could mention, including Dean!” Shelby snarled back. She gasped, flushed and clamped her hands over her mouth.

     Her sister started back and put her hand on the dresser they shared, clutching for something to support herself.

     “I didn’t mean to say that about you or Mr. Cobb,” Veronica said carefully. “And what about Dean, pray tell?”

     “Put the vase down first,” Shelby said.

     Veronica looked at the lumpy vase in her hand, a souvenir of some relative’s pottery-making class from decades ago. It was both ugly and worthless but it held water, so they still owned it.

     “We are both going crazy,” Veronica said. She carefully set the vase down. It was heavy enough to work as a blunt object. “Things keep happening and I can’t seem to keep up. What did Dean do?”

     “You’ll get mad.”

     “Too late now, sis,” Veronica said. “I’ve been there for a while. Tell me.”

     Shelby looked across the small room, studying the portrait of Madame Fluff on the opposite wall. She still missed the cat, even though it had been years. She had painted the picture from memory but, although she would never admit it, the image owed more than a little to a magazine illustration of a similar cat painted by Clyde Monez. She couldn’t quite remember their pet as well as she thought she could.

     “You won’t like it.”

     “I already know that so get to the point.”

     “You won’t believe me.”

     “I will. I have a much lower opinion of my former husband than I used to.”

     Veronica sighed deeply, sat on the bed by her sister, and put an arm around her. “Dean isn’t who I thought he was. I guess I can’t judge people’s characters at all.”

     “Yes, you can,” Shelby said. “You just want to believe that other people are like you. You know, decent and caring and hardworking and someone who would never abandon anyone she loves.”

     “Sweet of you, sis. So, what did my ex do to you?”

     Shelby frowned at the floor. “I guess it wasn’t much really, but it was still gross and upsetting. I mean, he’s your husband, or he was.” She paused, thinking and chewing on her lower lip.

     “Yep, I got that part.”

     “If you’d stop interrupting me,” Shelby said, “I could tell you this story, we could finish our fight about Malcolm, and we could still get some sleep before we have to do all this all over again tomorrow and we wouldn’t keep everybody else up.”

     Veronica giggled, surprising them both. “How right you are.”

     Shelby sighed. “It was after everything started coming out about Dad. You remember. Every day was worse than the day before. Dean’s mom, that awful witch, was saying the meanest things to everybody, including Dean, about how she’d never wanted Dean to marry you because our family was tainted and you were a slutty gold-digger and I wouldn’t turn out any better.”

     Veronica turned to her sister in horror. “She said that about you? Really? I don’t remember that last part.” Her former mother-in-law had had plenty to say to everyone about how fortunate the family was that they had been able to discard _her_ but she hadn’t heard Mrs. Kangjuon say anything nasty about Shelby.

     “Oh yeah,” Shelby replied sourly. “A former friend of mine couldn’t wait to tell me. Anyway, everything got sold and I moved here with mom into the White Elephant, after we had to leave Dome Six. Dean was still living here. He’d always been nice to me, like a little sister. You know he’s an only and I guess he liked pretending. But that day, the day I’m telling you about, was the day he told you he was leaving. You had a big fight.”

     “I remember,” Veronica replied. “I begged him to stay with me. I loved him and how could he leave me when he loved me and I needed him? What a spineless cave-worm he was.”

     ‘I was a spineless cave-worm,’ Veronica thought. ‘I would have done just about anything to keep Dean and I meant nothing to him.’

     “Spineless is right,” Shelby said. “He was packing his stuff, but he still got some servants from his family to do the heavy lifting. He wasn’t going to carry his own luggage when someone else could do it for him. You remember.”

     “Shelby please, you’re dragging this out. This is painful.”

     “Painful for me too, Veronica,” her sister said testily. “Anyways, I came in the gate when Dean was on his way out. Dean told me that if I wanted to rot in Dome Two, I could, but I was old enough and pretty enough that he’d set me up in a place of my own and he could visit me. For, you know,” Shelby flushed and ducked her head with embarrassment. “sex” she whispered.

     “Charming,” Veronica said. “Just charming.” Her hands went into fists of their own accord. ‘I will never speak to Dean again,’ she thought. ‘I don’t care what he wants or how critically important he thinks it is.’

     Shelby gritted her teeth and continued. “He didn’t touch me if that’s what you’re worried about. What he said was that I didn’t have any talent except my looks and with dear old dad ruining our lives I was only good for one thing and he’d arrange for friends of his to visit me too. Like I was some tunnel chola.”

     “Oh Shelby,” Veronica said. She could not stop a few stinging tears from leaking out. “Dean is a worthless heap of shit and you have loads of talent and he was jealous and you are not a tunnel chola.”

     Shelby twisted to glare at her sister. “Dean jealous of me? And quit crying over your ex. He’s not worth it.”

     Veronica wiped her eyes angrily. “No, he’s not. He told me once that he always wanted to draw and he envied you.”

     “Maybe if he’d picked up a pencil and practiced, he’d have been able to,” Shelby snapped. “I practice all the time. I never saw Dean so much as doodle on a shopping list.”

     “No, I never saw him draw either so I don’t know why he said that. Dean propositioned you.” Veronica lifted her sister’s face to her own. “Are you absolutely sure that’s all he did? If he touched you, I’ll have to crack his skull open with that vase and then I’ll go to jail and we’ll be out a vase.”

     “Would you really?” Shelby asked.

     “Yep, sure would,” Veronica said. “I hope you come and visit me. Damn him and his family. Everyone says to trust your instincts. I trusted mine and look what I got. A husband who ran out on me as soon as things got the least bit hard and then he tried to set you, my little sister, up as a prostitute so he could pimp you out!”

     They sat in silence for a few minutes.

     “Well,” Shelby said, “to be fair, he didn’t try very hard. He leered at me and I was already mad over everything that was happening and I slugged him as hard as I could. Dean never brought it up again and I suppose he could have. He’s been here often enough.”

     “Well that’s worth something,” Veronica said. She put her head in her hands, bone-tired. “I’ll tell Neza tomorrow, Florence and Lulu too. Dean’s never setting foot in the White Elephant again.”

     Shelby snickered. “Lulu wouldn’t mind telling him to leave. It would let her slice pieces off of him if he resisted even the tiniest bit.”

     “I’m sure that would be bad, although I can’t think why just now,” Veronica said.

     “So, are we done?” Shelby asked hopefully.

     “Not even partly,” her sister said. “You don’t think Mr. Cobb wants the same thing?”

     “I’m sure he does,” Shelby said carefully. “But I’m older than I was when Dean hit on me, and Malcolm’s being a really nice gentleman about it, and he treats me like I’m a princess, and he talks to me like I have a brain, and he’s happy to be seen in public with me and he even introduced me to his family.”

     “His family. Proles from the Steelio warren,” Veronica said.

     “They are not proles,” Shelby shot back. “They are very nice, friendly people. They love my pictures. And you should have seen them watching me and Malcolm. His entire family approves of me. His mother was asking when he would bring me back so I could meet everyone else!”

     “Even so,” her sister began.

     “You sound like auntie Neza,” Shelby said. “‘A nice boy from a good family,’” she sing-songed. “No one from PanU will give me the time of day other than to proposition me. I like Malcolm, he has a nice family, and he has a real career ahead of him, unlike, say Dean, who’s never done anything useful except live off his family’s money.”

     “I suppose,” Veronica said.

     Thinking of Dean made her wince but her little sister was right. Dean hadn’t done much with his life since their divorce and his graduation from PanU. She’d moved on with her life as best she could while he …. drifted, as aimless as terraformer spores caught in the breeze. What did he do with his days? Veronica realized suddenly she hadn’t cared in a long time and now, she cared even less.

     “It’s true and you know it. Malcolm’s really smart, he’s confident, and he works hard. I could do a lot worse and seeing how everyone from ‘decent families’ treats me, I _would_ do worse,” Shelby said. She smiled dreamily at Madame Fluff’s portrait. “I like him. The more I see him, the more I like him. He makes me feel all warm inside. I liked holding his hand and sitting next to him and,” – she flushed – “I would like to kiss him and have him kiss me back.” She hugged herself tightly, wishing Malcolm’s arms were around her as they had been on during the transtube ride.

     Veronica looked away, up to Madame Fluff’s portrait as well. She pursed her lips in distaste at the cat as she contemplated what Shelby seemed to be ignoring. It had to be said.

     “He’s a banker, but he’s also from the tunnels. He must have worked hard to get where he is. That awful cave-troll, Burgess, wants to make trouble for him like he’s going to make trouble for us.”

     “I know all that,” Shelby said impatiently.

     “Do you? We’re Simon Bradwell’s daughters,” Veronica said. “Remember dear old dad? Everyone in Panschin does and they will for the next hundred years. Marrying Simon Bradwell’s daughter isn’t going to be a good career move for an ambitious banker who’s already got a problem background to overcome.”

     “I don’t care,” Shelby said. “And you’re kind of early to be talking about my marrying Malcolm Cobb.”

     “The way you looked at him in the dining room tonight? I was wondering if you were going to elope with him tomorrow,” Veronica said hotly. “You’d come home from PanU with a ring on your finger, both of your names tattooed on your left arm, and a certificate from the justice of the peace with the ink still wet.”

     Shelby snorted. “Gleesh, Veronica. You sound like me. You’re supposed to be the sensible one, not me. I like Malcolm a lot and I think he fancies me. And maybe, that’s all that it will be. And, …” she let her voice trail away.

     “And?” Veronica asked.

     “And if Malcolm likes me, he won’t be working hard for that awful Burgess, looking to throw us out for lease violations. Maybe he can help us.” Shelby ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it back into a nimbus that framed her face.

     “That’s uh, very practical of you,” Veronica said slowly. “I could also say mercenary and cynical.”

     “You’re the one with the literature vocabulary. Try realistic,” Shelby said. “I like Malcolm and I would like to get to know him better and if he wants to help us out, I don’t think we should say no.”

     They both stared at Madame Fluff who stared back. Her painted expression said nothing useful, but her real-life expression never had either.

     “All right then,” Veronica said. “You’ve got my permission. You’re old enough to know your own mind and it’s not like you’d listen to me anyway. I’ll talk to auntie Neza and see if I can get her to agree.”

     “Do you think she’d be upset with me?” Shelby asked. “Over Malcolm, I mean?”

     “She was really enthused about you meeting a nice young man from a good family at PanU,” Veronica said. “I don’t think a scholarship boy from the tunnels was what she had in mind, no matter how hardworking or good-looking he is.”

     Shelby grinned. “So you think Malcolm is good-looking?”

     Her sister grinned too. “You know he is, if you like the big and good-looking in a rough-hewn way type of man. And really, who doesn’t?” Airik Jones flashed through her mind and she shoved away the image.

     “I’d love to draw him some more,” Shelby said dreamily.

     “Some more?” Veronica asked, eyebrows raised to her hairline.

     “I sketched Malcolm last night, after I drew that thug for the police,” Shelby admitted. “I carried his picture all day, in my breast pocket.”

     “Right over your heart,” Veronica groaned. “You do have it bad.”

     “It would get crumpled in any of my other pockets,” Shelby said.

     “Heavens above forbid such a thing,” Veronica said dryly. “I mean, the horror.”

     She looked over at Madame Fluff’s portrait again. Shelby had done a nice job, almost as nice as the painter of the kitten calendar downstairs, although she didn’t remember Madame Fluff as having quite that adoring an expression. “But I did mean it about dear old dad and Malcolm’s career as a banker. He has to know.”

     Shelby breathed out heavily, emptying her lungs of aggravation and breathed in as deeply, postponing an answer.

     “Well?”

     “I already thought about it, Veronica,” Shelby said. “Malcolm never brought it up so maybe he doesn’t know.”

     “Don’t be naïve, Shelby,” Veronica said, making her sister wince and hunch her shoulders. “He’s not stupid and I’m positive that whatever business college he went to must have covered dear old dad as a case study in fraud and embezzlement. The story was in every paper in Panschin for months. It was a current event _and_ involved half the banks in the city. He must know.”

     “I understand all that,” Shelby said. “He didn’t bring it up, maybe because he does like me and he didn’t want to upset me and spoil the day.” She sighed again, even more deeply. “I already decided I’m going to tell him tomorrow morning. When we walk over to PanU.”

     “Very good but why didn’t you say something today?” Veronica asked.

     “Gleesh, Veronica.” Shelby twisted and glared at her sister. “Let me have a daydream for at least twenty-four hours, okay? If Malcolm doesn’t know and I tell him and he vanishes down a mineshaft rather than be seen with,” – she waved her hands angrily – “that worthless Bradwell girl, well at least I got a wonderful day with him and learned how a nice man should treat me.”

     “I’m sorry,” Veronica said softly. “You’re right. You deserve a dream day, and you deserve a dream life, and if Malcolm Cobb is worth anything, he’ll give you them because you are not worthless.” She sat up straighter and pulled her sister back to her in a tight hug. “And neither am I. We are not our father.”

     Shelby yawned ostentatiously. She was tired and more than ready to sleep and dream of Malcolm. She was also tired of listening to Veronica. Unfortunately, if she knew her sister, and she did, Veronica had more to say.

     “Shelby,” Veronica said.

     Shelby, to her credit, did not roll her eyes.

     “Can’t we turn blow out the candle and sleep? What is it now?” she asked.

     Veronica sighed gustily. “I don’t know if I can,” she admitted. “On top of everything else, do I have to worry over Kip suing us for getting surface-sickness? You know him. Would he do that?”

     Shelby gnawed on her lower lip. “I don’t know. Kip likes me, or at least I think he does. But he doesn’t want to admit it to anyone, including, I guess, himself. I don’t know why.”

     “Probably dear old dad again,” Veronica said dismally. “I don’t think there’s anyone in Panschin he didn’t cheat.”

     “Malcolm’s family,” Shelby said and snickered. “They’re unimportant and they don’t have any money. There must be transtubes crammed full of people dear old dad didn’t waste his time on.”

     Veronica sighed. “Focus, Shelby. Would Kip sue us? I don’t think I could live through another court case and the newspaper reports making sure everyone who breathes knows how terrible we are. And we don’t have any money to fight.”

     “I just don’t know,” her sister admitted. “Kip came with me when no one else would and then he got mean. It must have been the surface-sickness coming out. But he wouldn’t introduce me to his parents at the gallery showing, even though I’m a member of the Collective just like everyone else.”

     She paused while Veronica waited patiently.

     “Maybe he wouldn’t but his family might,” Shelby concluded.

     “Wonderful,” Veronica said wearily. “One more darn thing. Well, I doubt if a team of lawyers will show up tomorrow morning and lay siege to the White Elephant. Lawsuits take time and I’ll think of something.”

     “Yes,” Shelby said dreamily. “We could hide in the Steelio warren with Malcolm.”

     Veronica groaned. “In the tunnels? Us? Okay, maybe us, but how about auntie Neza? She’s never been lower down than the upper transtube levels. I just can’t see her as a tunnel rat.”

     “Quit worrying, Veronica, and get some sleep.”

     Shelby got up, pulled the drapes closed, and blew out the candle. “Tomorrow’s another day. Remember what you always say.”

     “It will get better,” Veronica repeated obediently. “It has to.”

*****

     Veronica lay in the velvety gray darkness listening to Shelby’s breathing. Her baby sister did fancy Malcolm Cobb and she didn’t care about his family’s background. That was a pleasant surprise. Shelby saw the Cobb family, at least for now, as people and not just as proles who should keep to their place in the deepdown, ensuring the better classes of Panschin could live comfortably.

     She smiled up at the ceiling. That was one good thing to come out of the debacle that dear old dad had visited on the family. Any snobbishness the Bradwell sisters had, had been beaten out of them. They had friends and family who were ostentatiously proud of their charity; those people had shunned them. Dome Two neighbors, who came from every walk of life, had been friendlier. It didn’t matter what people said since they could and did say anything using nice, cheap words. It mattered how they treated you. That cost effort.

     Malcolm Cobb treated Shelby like a princess. Maybe he did see her as precious and valuable. Certainly, once Kip ran out on her sister and left her underground, he could have taken Shelby anywhere and used her however he chose. But he had not. He’d taken her to the Steelio warren and showed Shelby around and brought her home, safe, sound, and happy. He had behaved as he said he would.

     Veronica thought then of Airik Jones. He had been very helpful, unusually so for a guest who owed her nothing. His behavior said he valued her or least he valued a quiet stay at the White Elephant. She stretched and wiggled and wondered if Dean showed up again, would Mr. Jones really throw Dean over the garden wall as he had said he would. It would serve Dean right, especially if he landed hard and broke his jaw so he couldn’t talk anymore.

     She still couldn’t figure out Mr. Jones. He was so average; average in height, average in build or least she thought so since a baggy coverall hid a multitude of sins, and average in looks. But he wasn’t average in brains, that was clear enough. And when he needed to be, he stopped being average and suddenly became someone who expected other people to snap to attention. How odd that was. Almost as though Mr. Jones was someone else entirely. Not surprising really, since ‘Jones’ probably wasn’t his real name but even so, very few people could expect to be obeyed as though they held supreme power over other people’s lives.

     She slipped off into a pleasant but exceedingly unlikely dream of Airik Jones defending the White Elephant from Mr. Burgess leading an army of McGrant family lawyers, all of whom looked like sheep.

*****

     Airik closed the door behind him, sweated through his nightly routine of exercises, and settled in to read Elliot’s initial report on the Bradwell family in private. He had expected it to be unfavorable, based on Veronica’s hints and his other observations.

     It was not.

     It was appalling.

     Her father, Simon Bradwell, never met _anyone_ he didn’t consider a sheep waiting to be sheared, a goose waiting to be plucked. Worse, since he came from a highly respected family of longstanding in Panschin, no one could believe that someone with such a proper upbringing could be other than reputable in his business dealings. Still worse was the utter naiveté that enfolded Simon Bradwell in a cocoon of decency and probity. Since no one could believe he was a crook, he got away with financial malfeasance for years even as red flags fluttered and sirens sounded. He even used his wife and daughters as cover, parading them about as evidence of his upright behavior since he stated publicly he would never do anything to harm them.

     Elliot had been adamant when he discreetly handed the report to Airik after they had all gone upstairs to retire to their respective rooms.

     “It is grossly incomplete, sir,” his valet and part-time researcher insisted. “I merely scraped the topmost level of sod from the soil below. I could spend months reading all those newspaper reports alone. This wouldn’t include the numerous case studies that have come out since the aborted trial. In addition, I would need to interview witnesses and read the reams of legal dossiers that have been filed.”

     “I see,” Airik had replied when he took the sheaf of papers. “Continue your researches tomorrow and for every day after until I say otherwise.”

     “I am surprised to say, sir,” Elliot added, “that the Miss Bradwells did not themselves end up in jail on some kind of charges.”

     Airik had looked up sharply. “Do you believe that they participated?”

     “As of this date in my preliminary research? No, I do not,” Elliot said. “However, their father permanently destroyed the finances of many, many families, leaving them bankrupt and destitute. Those families will never forgive his daughters for existing. Someone must suffer and since Simon Bradwell conveniently slit his wrists prior to the first trial and their mother is dead, they are the most likely candidates.”

     Airik reread Elliot’s damning report. It was all beautifully and concisely laid out, well-organized so no important point could be missed, and as legible as he could want due to his valet’s precise handwriting. Elliot was clearly wasted as a valet, skilled as he was at that task.

     As Elliot had insisted, and the report made clear, there was no end to the depths of Simon Bradwell’s criminal career. That led directly to the worst fact of them all. The business leaders and bankers of Panschin were grossly incompetent. How could they have missed any of these activities?

     A disturbing memory surfaced, reminding Airik of how easy it was to believe what you wanted to believe. He had, like everyone else in the Shelleen family, been sure no one in the family would put the entire demesne at risk for their own personal gain. Yet Howard Shelleen had. As the daimyo, Airik had to punish Howard. He had chosen to do so in the most publicly humiliating and painful way possible so no one else in the Shelleen clan would dare to cheat the family again. The memory would be seared into the family for generations.

     Airik could still hear every one of Howard’s screams during his flogging in front of the entire population of Shelleen. It had been agonizing to sit through, unmoving, as though he was a heartless man of stone as so many of his own family believed. Yet agonizing as it was, Airik knew he would order it done again to protect the wellbeing of the demesne.

     That led to another disturbing aspect of Elliot’s report. As much damage as Howard had done to Shelleen, his wife, son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren had not been punished. Airik had carefully investigated their possible entanglement and found nothing. He had demanded that the family follow his lead and not ostracize Howard’s immediate family. Howard had chosen to go into exile, retreating to his wife’s home demesne of Kamandango with her, rather than face the family he had betrayed on a daily basis. Their son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren had remained in Shelleen. Jason, Howard’s only child, had been fiercely insistent about staying and cleaning up the damage his father had done.

     Panschin had not been so generous to the Bradwell sisters.

     Howard, unlike Simon Bradwell, had chosen to live. He took his punishment rather than suiciding and thus avoiding having to face the grief and agony he had caused to so many. He saw his family continue untarnished, unlike the Bradwell sisters.

     Airik could only conclude that Simon Bradwell was a heartless man of stone, as well as a coward. What did that say of Veronica, then? She was his daughter, yet was she like her father? Or did she share Jason’s traits of refusing to behave as she pleased and then lying about her actions rather than face the truth. Based on what he saw, Veronica was nothing like her father.

     But her father was a consummate liar.

     Still, there was the incontrovertible fact that the Bradwell family had no money. Simon Bradwell’s ill-gotten gains had vanished and no one knew where. If Veronica had even the smallest amount of his loot hidden away, she could have used it to escape Panschin at her earliest opportunity. Her father would have. Yet Veronica had remained with her aunt and her sister, scraping by, allowing their home to be used as an art gallery in exchange for pennies from the door receipts and the scrubbing of the building. She had chosen to stay and face, every day, her father’s victims who would never forgive or forget.

     Airik chewed over Elliot’s report a third time, slowly, making his own notes on the connections he found. Where had all that money gone? It was almost as though Simon Bradwell had a partner in the Panschin business community, someone who, to this day, remained undetected. This partner had helped him embezzle and defraud countless members of Panschin’s upper and business classes, yet remained unidentified. He had to be there. Airik’s own business experience led him to that conclusion.

     Simon Bradwell had not acted alone. He had to have had help, or at the very least, a blind eye turned onto his business dealings. To say otherwise would be to say that the Panschin business community was completely and utterly incompetent. Based on his own research, Airik decided that was untrue and his daily dealings with members of the business community reinforced his conclusion.

     Airik carefully put away Elliot’s report, concealing it within his own papers. It wouldn’t do for Upton to read this. He wasn’t happy slumming at the White Elephant, blaming it for his hangover and his sinus issues. His secretary would be overjoyed to return to the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel with all its amenities and lures and charming women who would be delighted to fall over for him if it meant a chance of getting closer to the daimyo of Shelleen.


	22. the sins of the father (forever follow the child)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thats how its always been, right?
> 
> OR: Shelby tells Malcolm the truth, Nunzio learns more and Dean arrives

As he had promised, Malcolm Cobb arrived promptly at the front door of the White Elephant and was admitted into the dining room where everyone was eating breakfast, including Trevor and Evan. This morning, he was again in his guise as the assistant manager of the Second National Bank of Panschin. Each of the residents of the White Elephant, -- permanent, temporary, and regular visitors -- gave him a careful looking over to see if the jumped-up tunnel rat showed underneath the fine tailoring. It did not, other than to Nunzio and Airik. They studied Malcolm’s hands and this time, correctly placed him in the category of men who weren’t above getting their hands dirty.

Elliot was chagrined. Despite his training and experience as a gentleman’s gentleman, he had missed the obvious tell.

As for himself, Malcolm was pleased again at new evidence that he did not bear the mark of Cain stamped upon his face as he had always believed.

Upton didn’t care one way or the other because he was feeling much, much better; enough so he was considering flirting with Florence despite her boyfriend’s hostile presence. It had to be Florence since Shelby was a lost cause having only eyes for Malcolm; Veronica was off-limits since every time he turned her way, Airik scowled at him; Neza dismissed him as an amusing but silly boy; and Lulu scared the pants off him but not in the fun way.

Lulu, however, did want his undivided attention.

She leaned over the table, a mug of steaming hot, vile-smelling tea in her hand, smacked him on the shoulder with her free hand to get his attention, and glared into his startled face. Upton sat back abruptly, the attractive company around him no longer his main concern.

“You’re feeling better. Good. I knew you would be,” Lulu hissed. “But you, Mr. Upton Jones, are not better. You are still sick. You’ll be dizzy from time to time and you need to take it easy. When you come back to the White Elephant, I’ll get you more medicinal tea. In the meantime, drink this mug down, every last drop, and no shirking.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Upton squeaked out, all thoughts of attractive women banished. He manfully swallowed his tea, then cringed when Lulu smiled gleefully and presented a second mugful. She was thoroughly enjoying their moment together, which made one of them.

“Thank you, Lulu,” Airik said. “Upton has plenty of work waiting for him.”

He would have to discover the ingredients of Lulu’s atrocious smelling brew. It had worked miracles on Upton’s constitution. It might work for the rest of the Shelleen contingent back at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel who were complaining about sinus infections and thus shirking their own duties. Despite the exorbitant fees he was paying the hotel, the hotel doctor didn’t appear to be doing a better job keeping his staff healthy than Lulu was.

“Just doing my job, Mr. Jones,” she replied.

“In fact,” Airik said. “Would you pack an extra container or two of your medicinal tea for Upton? In case his symptoms recur during the day.” If this worked, he would pay Lulu to make up a vat for the Shelleen contingent currently lazing about at the Twelve Happiness hotel. Based on Upton’s response to Lulu, if he hired her to go along with the tea, he could be assured of one hundred percent compliance from his staff.

“Of course,” Lulu said, looking very pleased.

Upton did not look pleased, but he resigned himself to his fate. He did, after all, feel better and that meant he could eventually escape Lulu’s eagle-eye and ruthless ministrations. She really would make a good nurse.

“Veronica? We’ll be heading out,” Shelby said, gazing up at Malcolm mistily and not bothering to make eye contact with her sister at all.

“Of course,” Veronica said. “I know you’re with the group, but be careful anyway, okay?”

“No worries, Miss Bradwell,” Malcolm said. “Nothing will happen.” He didn’t bother making eye contact with Veronica either, having only eyes for Shelby.

Trevor and Evan, gentlemen friends of Lulu and Florence, nodded in agreement.

Veronica sniffed and said, “I certainly hope so. It would be a nice change from the last few days.”

Once the group heading to PanU had left, Airik said, “Upton and I will be working on some reports upstairs. Elliot has some errands I need him to do.”

“And Nunzio?” Neza asked. “What are your plans?”

“I was planning on walking around the neighborhood,” Nunzio replied. “Get a feel for the area while uh, Airik, is working.”

“How useful,” the old lady replied. “Would you mind, Mr. Jones, if I borrowed your cousin for the morning? I have some errands to run and I would appreciate the escort.”

“Not at all,” Airik said. “Upton and I won’t be finished for an hour or so. Will that be enough time?”

“More than sufficient,” Neza said.

Veronica was relieved. She could catch up on her gardening (the new cash crops were coming up and had to be weeded free of terraformers) while Nunzio made sure her elderly great-aunt was safe and carried the packages. And even better, anyone suspicious watching from inside an abandoned house would see Nunzio with her aunt. No one would willingly take on someone Nunzio’s size, meaning auntie Neza would be protected even when Nunzio wasn’t right by her side.

*****

Shelby walked quietly, holding hands with Malcolm and wishing that the perfect opening would arise for her to tell Malcolm that the Bradwell family was tainted and his association with her could lead to career suicide for him. Sadly, Trevor, Evan, Lulu, and Florence were full of questions about the scholarship program he had triumphed in, how he balanced his family in the tunnels with the demands of the banking industry, and did he really still go into the deepdown? He answered them all, leading to more questions, making for an informative walk for all concerned.

For herself, Shelby had not thought of how much a program like this meant in the tunnels. If Lulu and Florence’s reactions meant anything, a comprehensive scholarship offered a way up and out for anyone with serious ambitions. Their own scholarships to nursing school, while deeply appreciated, kept them firmly within the ranks of the working classes. She thought again of PanU’s own preachings about helping the underclasses with art. How could anyone say with a straight face that a painting on the wall would bring about the brave new millennium? Paintings in museums or in the homes of collectors didn’t put food on tables or provide jobs other than to the artist or the gallery owner who sold the work.

Paintings were, or at least they should be, beautiful and inspiring. Yet Professor Vitebskin’s anointed style was ugly. Drawing kittens and clouds, despite being decidedly déclassé, did provide beauty and comfort based on the number of pictures she had seen in the Steelio warren, clipped from adverts and pinned to walls. If auntie Neza was successful in persuading PanU to allow Shelby and her pre-paid tuition to transfer to PCC’s commercial arts department, she, Shelby, could draw beautiful objects in adverts that someone whom she would never know would appreciate and enjoy. How much more beauty could Shelby add to the world with the very best magazine illustrations she could draw? Far more than she would with ugly paintings of cesspool contents.

She could also make money drawing adverts.

It was galling to discover she was agreeing with her sister about the futility of avant-garde art.

The group stopped at the gate to PanU. Florence and Lulu disappeared into PCC’s underground entrance while Evan and Trevor went on their ways, after kisses and cuddles.

“Shelby?” Malcolm said. “You’ll be safe on campus and I have to go.”

She tightened her grip on his hand, so warm and strong in her own, much smaller hand.

“Not yet,” Shelby said. “Sit with me for a minute. I have to tell you this.”

She led him over to a nearby bench and as soon as they were seated, she plunged in.

“I’m Simon Bradwell’s younger daughter. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him but if anyone at the Second National Bank of Panschin finds out you’re seeing me, you’ll be ruined.” She swallowed hard and fought back a sudden burst of stinging tears. “You need to know.”

Malcolm smiled down at her and, to her surprise leaned in and brushed his lips across her own.

She gazed up at him, wanting him to touch her lips with his own again.

“I know. Your dad is a case study at Panschin School of Business. And I don’t care. You’re not your father,” Malcolm said. “You are you, beautiful and talented and brave Shelby Bradwell.”

“Malcolm,” Shelby said. “I’m serious.” ‘Why am I saying this stuff when he could be kissing me again? Because I have to, for him, darn it.’

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Are you sure? I have no connections who can help you.” She turned away bitterly, the chance of kisses forgotten. “All our relatives, except for auntie Neza, turned on us. I’m surprised we didn’t go to jail, me and Veronica, even though we didn’t have anything to do with the whole mess. We’re pariahs because of dear old dad and so is everyone who associates with us.”

He turned her face back to his own. “I understand, better I think than you realize, how that feels. I’m a scholarship boy and that means at the fancy prep school I went to and then Panschin School of Business, I was always there on sufferance. Too many people there were waiting for me to fall on my face. If I failed, it was because I was worthless. If I succeeded, then I must have cheated. If I didn’t work, I was lazy. If I did work, I was showing off and making everyone else look bad.”

“But Mr. Burgess,” Shelby began.

“Screw him.”

“Eeeouw! That would be _disgusting_ ,” Shelby said and dissolved into horrified giggles over the prospect of a naked and panting Mr. Burgess.

Malcolm laughed too. “Yeah, it would be. I better rethink how I say that.”

Shelby giggled a few more minutes, then sobered up. “But Mr. Burgess, despite wearing the PanU cafeteria drapes, is a problem. He’s a problem for us and for you. You can’t work your way out of him.”

Malcolm looked puzzled. “The cafeteria drapes?”

Shelby giggled again. “His suit, the one that he wore at the gallery showing, looks just like the floral cafeteria drapes at PanU. I’m sure he doesn’t know.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Malcolm said, looking highly amused. “That is funny. He chuckled, then got back to the point.

“Shelby, I am serious. Burgess is a problem, but not one I can’t handle. He can’t throw you or your family out of the White Elephant because he has no grounds. I’ve seen your records, you’ve never missed a payment, and your house is immaculately maintained.”

“He’ll think of something,” Shelby said. She groaned in remembrance. “People did all the time, after dear old dad. And there’s you. He could hurt you.”

Malcolm smiled very coldly. “He’s not as dangerous as he thinks he is. I’ve been working my way through the records at Second National. There’s gaps in the files but there’s something there. I’m sure of it. Something damaging to him personally.”

“That sounds like wishful thinking,” Shelby said. She leaned into his big, muscular body. He felt good, so warm and strong. She stored away the memory in case she never got another chance to sit next to Malcolm.

“He is not a banker in a melodrama. He can’t do whatever he pleases and get away with it while twirling his mustache.” Malcolm paused, considering exactly how he wanted to hint what he knew and Shelby and her sister did not. “He’s not the daimyo of a demesne with the power of life and death over his peasants. Burgess has to follow rules. And he’s made enough enemies that if he screwed up, and I can prove it, he’ll find out that his friends will shove him down the nearest mineshaft to save themselves.”

Shelby felt so good, leaning up into him. So soft, so feminine, so talented and concerned. She was everything he wanted in a woman. He’d been right to take the risk in revealing himself to his Dome Two princess. Shelby Bradwell was turning out to be everything he had hoped she would be.

He shifted and leaned over to kiss her again, longer this time, feeling her open up to him, wanting him.

Shelby closed her eyes and leaned into his kiss. Malcolm felt wonderful and only the sound of the campus clock striking the time made her pull away.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’ll be late.”

“I’ll try to be here to walk you home,” Malcolm said.

She beamed up at him. “I’d love that, Malcolm.” ‘And I might be falling in love with you,’ she thought. ‘You make it so easy.’

‘I could fall in love with you, my Shelby,’ Malcolm thought. ‘You are a delight.’

Neither of them noticed Kip, peering from behind a large planter holding a lacy tree that cast dappled shadows over him. He turned abruptly and marched into the quad, lost in his own jealous thoughts and sullen regrets.

*****

Veronica walked out to the gate with auntie Neza and Nunzio. It was so reassuring to watch him escort her elderly aunt into the street. The horde of foot-traffic magically parted to make way for them and it didn’t take long for auntie Neza to be accosted by everyone who had even the slightest idea who she was to make sure she was in good hands. That was reassuring too. The neighborhood residents were, as promised, looking out for the residents of the White Elephant. She watched them march up the street towards the business district and then, seeing how the other pedestrians automatically made plenty of space for Nunzio and by extension Neza, Veronica finally worked out what kind of servant he was for Airik Jones.

Elliot had been easy. He was obviously a valet and general assistant who handled all the day to day dreary details, making life easier for his employer. He was routine, if expensive. She knew people, or she used to, who employed valets. Her impeccably dressed father used to employ one; managing his extensive wardrobe, running errands, and seeing to his personal needs. He had been let go when things started falling apart.

Upton appeared to be a secretary, doing all the routine paperwork, making appointments and managing a calendar, taking dictation; everything a busy executive needed to improve his own efficiency. It was even likely, based on their similar facial features, that Upton was, as they claimed, Mr. Jones’ cousin. Lots of families employed every possible relative so as to squeeze some work out of them while keeping the business money within the family.

Simon Bradwell had employed many secretaries, only allowing each one to see a tiny portion of his business so none of them could grasp his overall scheme. Veronica had met most of them, indeed had testified in court that she didn’t believe they had helped her father swindle his clients. He wouldn’t have been that careless. He had certainly discouraged her from working in his office, even though she had offered her skills more than once so she could learn the business.

While it wasn’t unexpected to see someone in either position, it was a surprise that a man who could afford a secretary _and_ a valet would have come to stay at the White Elephant. Last minute trip to Panschin or not, Veronica would have assumed someone with that kind of money would be well connected enough to be staying with distant relatives or with business acquaintances. Mr. Jones’ other choice would have been the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. Veronica had been there once, early in her marriage to Dean. It was the most luxurious hotel she had ever seen in her admittedly limited experience. It was hard to believe even the Biennial Mining Conference would fill that hotel’s gaspingly expensive rooms. If Mr. Jones could afford a valet and a secretary, he could afford the Twelve Happiness.

And then there was Nunzio. One of the biggest men Veronica had ever seen, he over-filled whatever space he was occupying. He was both taller and broader than either Malcolm or that awful thug. There was no question, looking at Nunzio, that he was a mountain of muscle and bone. He carried suitcases like they were bales of feathers. But hauling luggage wasn’t his function in life.

Nunzio was Mr. Jones’ bodyguard.

Why did Mr. Jones need a bodyguard? Why did anyone need a bodyguard? Normal people didn’t. You had to be very, very important or in daily danger to need someone around you to bust heads. Someone like that would never stay at the White Elephant unless he was hiding. Veronica wondered again who she had rented rooms to because she desperately needed their money. Mr. Jones had been polite, unexpectedly helpful, and considerate, but he did not act very, very important nor did he look over his shoulder constantly.

She liked him. He made her laugh. He seemed to appreciate her intelligence. But she knew nothing about him, she couldn’t trust her own instincts, and Airik Jones had to be lying about who he was. In addition to a valet and a secretary which could be explained away, he employed a bodyguard, which could not. She had never met anyone who employed one.

Veronica sank down onto the low stone wall, staring up the street into the passersby. Would auntie Neza come back alive? Her aunt would, she decided. Mr. Jones wanted to hide or he’d be at the Twelve Happiness or some other similar place right now. Nothing would happen to Neza with Nunzio around and that implied nothing would happen to the residents of the White Elephant as long as Mr. Jones was around.

He wanted quiet and he was going to get it. That might even be the reason Mr. Jones had allowed Nunzio to escort her aunt. She provided the perfect excuse for the bodyguard to walk around the neighborhood, making sure nothing happened to disturb Mr. Jones.

Then why had he come downstairs to the gallery showing? Wouldn’t that have risked Mr. Jones’ being exposed? Veronica frowned at the street, thinking hard. The visitors at the gallery showing were all members of the PanU Artists’ Collective, other students, Professor Vitebskin, the various members of the Panschin art establishment, and their bored relatives. She laughed suddenly. Not one of those people was connected in any way to mining, other than Kip McGrant’s own, tentative connection to Chung/Banerjee. Not one of those people read anything out of a newspaper or magazine other than the society pages and the arts sections. Mr. Jones must have decided he’d be safe enough and he had been correct.

That led to another conclusion. Perhaps Mr. Jones could do something to keep both Mr. Burgess and the McGrant family away as he implied. As long as he was sleeping under her roof, Mr. Jones wanted quiet anonymity and he might be powerful enough to make that happen.

Veronica felt suddenly relieved. She didn’t know who or what Airik Jones was, but for now, she could use him to keep her little family safe. She would be, as Shelby was being with Malcolm Cobb, realistic. As long as he was around, Mr. Jones gave her breathing room.

She turned around and around, looking over her tiny domain. Knowing that auntie Neza was in good hands, that Shelby was safely on PanU’s campus, meant she could focus on her current crop of vegetables. Their sale to the Dappled Yak would earn money she might need when the McGrant family’s lawyers came calling after Airik Jones disappeared back into whatever life he had that required a bodyguard. Or if Mr. Burgess showed up to kick them out. Extra money would let the Bradwell sisters disappear into the tunnels where he’d never find them.

*****

It didn’t take Nunzio long to realize that Neza Molony knew a good percentage of the residents of Dome Two. They all cautiously approached him and demanded to know of Neza who he was and what he was doing out and about with her. She smiled and made conversation and told everyone that he was a distant relative from Barsoom, here in Panschin for the Biennial Mining Conference. Since she was relaxed and at ease, the residents of Dome Two relaxed as well, although more than one person very quietly informed Nunzio that they would stop by on occasion just to see how things were going at the White Elephant.

It had not occurred to him that a Dome in Panschin resembled a village in Shelleen. If his elderly aunt took in a visitor from outside, it would be the talk of the village within a day and the talk of the rest of Shelleen with a few days. Dome Two, despite its alien nature and oddly dressed and oddly spoken population, behaved in the same manner. He was becoming fond of the odd Bradwell family and didn’t want them to suffer harm. The residents of Dome Two, like the residents of the villages of Shelleen, looked out for one another. It was reassuring.

As they neared the small business district, Mrs. Grisson appeared, demanded an introduction, and attached herself to them. She was loaded with questions and had, for Nunzio, disquietingly sharp eyes. He didn’t think she bought the story of distant relatives but she didn’t question it either. It was almost as though that kind of story was expected to be told even when both tellers and hearers knew the truth was something else altogether.

That was different from Shelleen. He would have to figure out the motivation to lie on a subject that could be so easily found out.

As they neared the police substation, Nunzio said, “I’ll need to stop here for a bit. Got a question for the desk sergeant.”

“Do you now,” Neza said with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve got to speak with the laundry service. I can be back in about twenty minutes. Will that be enough time?”

“Mrs. Grisson going to stay with you, Miss Molony? If so, I’d be obliged. Otherwise, I’ll stay with you.”

Mrs. Grisson exchanged glances with Neza. “Sure will, Mr. Nunzio _Jones_ ,” she answered, emphasizing his last name as if she didn’t believe it was Jones and wanted to be sure he knew it without her having to ask rude questions about why he was lying. “You take your time and I’ll get Neza back here safe and sound.”

Nunzio stopped at the base of the sandstone stairs leading up to the police substation and watched them walk off, heads together as they spoke rapidly. Miss Molony was, if he was any judge of old ladies, telling Mrs. Grisson everything that had occurred since they had last spoken, along with her opinions on the subject, and extrapolating what would happen between now and their next meeting.

Then he took a considering look at the substation. Like the White Elephant, it was pristine. The white stone walls reflected every bit of the watery sunshine the dome allowed. In better light, the building would sparkle. The building next door was even grander, decorated with a host of beautifully carved, life-size statues. He wondered again why the Panschin train station had been so filthy, caked with terraformers wherever anyone didn’t walk or put their hands. It was so strange that some public buildings would be carefully maintained whereas other public places were left to go to wrack and ruin. That would never be allowed to happen in Shelleen. The family wouldn’t stand for it.

He marched up the stairs and entered the broad entryway, designed to overawe visitors and impress upon them the importance of law and order. Like the White Elephant’s atrium, the vast lobby had no roof; it was open to the dome high above, ringed at every floor with balconies crowded with desks piled with paper. The once grand space no longer awed visitors since the needs of daily policing filled the lobby with overflow benches to hold an assortment of people, all of whom needed to be stashed while waiting to be seen. The noise of arguing and the odor of bodies, accompanied by the reek of Panschin’s weird diet, filled the air.

As Nunzio stood there, allowing his eyes to adjust to what he was seeing, quiet fell around him. This was a normal occurrence for Nunzio so he ignored it. The desk sergeant did not.

“Hey! You there, big man. Whaddayawant?”

Nunzio turned, and realized he was being called by a gentleman of the law, presiding behind a tall desk. The sergeant’s dark-blue uniform was covered with golden stripes that gleamed in the light with his every movement. There were stripes for rank, stripes for longevity, stripes that seemed to indicate specialized skills, and stripes that filled no function that Nunzio could decipher, other than they meant something in Panschin.

“Yes, sir,” Nunzio said and walked through the throng, parting before him like clouds driven apart by the wind, to the high, polished wood desk. “I’m Nunzio Jones and I’m staying at the White Elephant.”

“Ah,” the desk sergeant replied. “Distant relatives of Miss Molony and her nieces or so I’ve been told.”

“Yes, sir, that’s true,” Nunzio lied. “We’re here from Barsoom for the mining conference.” Word had gotten around fast, just like it would have in Shelleen.

“I’m glad to hear the ladies won’t be alone. Why are you here?”

Nunzio correctly interpreted the question as asking why he wasn’t back at the White Elephant. “I was wondering about the thug who came by the gallery showing. See, I got briefed on what I might see in Panschin. I was told about a group called ‘Blue Sun’.”

The desk sergeant leaned forward, suddenly much more interested.

“What do you know about them?”

“They run a lot of criminal-type stuff in Panschin,” Nunzio said earnestly. “See, here’s the thing I don’t know. I was told that if a man belonged to Blue Sun, he’d have their mark on him, a blue circle. I was told it could be seen if you knew what to look for. I don’t know what to look for and would like to find out.”

“You think this man might have been with Blue Sun?” the desk sergeant asked, his face very intent.

“Sir, I do not know. I did not get a good look at him or his boss.”

“And why not?”

Nunzio grinned suddenly. “Maybe they was avoiding me. People do that sometimes.”

The desk sergeant grinned back. “Yes, I suppose that could happen. I’m guessing you saw Miss Shelby’s drawing. Good likeness?”

“Yes sir, very good from what little I saw of the thug.”

“Blue Sun men always have a solid blue circle tattooed where it can be seen, even when the man is fully dressed. It doesn’t have to be large and it doesn’t have to be obvious,” the desk sergeant said. “You won’t see a blue circle in the middle of someone’s forehead. But you will see one. Think hard about what you saw.”

“It’d be helpful if I could see an example,” Nunzio said. “I’m not sure of what I saw. But that thug, he wanted Miss Bradwell’s house in the worst way. Didn’t make no sense to me, what with empty houses all around the White Elephant falling apart and open to squatters. Maybe he thought there was something valuable stashed there?”

The desk sergeant sat back and thought about Simon Bradwell. No one had ever discovered where all the money he had stolen went. Was it possible that some of those ill-gotten gains were hidden somewhere in the house? If someone thought loot was stashed there, it might explain the sudden interest in the White Elephant. Knowing the household’s poverty, he hadn’t considered that possibility and he should have.

He slapped his hand on the desk bell, making it ring loudly. A moment later, one of his young runners came trotting up.

The uniformed lad saluted and said, “reporting for duty, sir.”

“Run down to the Broken Pickaxe and tell Hurkle, he’ll be behind the bar, I want him and I want him five minutes ago,” the desk sergeant said. “If he gives you any lip, tell him he earned himself a raid. Now get.”

“On it, sir,” the lad replied and ran for the front door and into the watery sunlight of the Dome.

“The Broken Pickaxe, sir?” Nunzio asked.

“One of our local bars and you can call me sergeant. My parents were married.”

Nunzio grinned again. “Okay, sergeant. I’m Nunzio and not Mr. Jones. That’s my boss.”

‘Aha, he’s working for Mr. Jones,’ the sergeant thought. ‘Nunzio’s not Neza Molony’s relative then, but claiming to be to save trouble with the bank if they ever find out her niece Veronica’s renting out rooms.’

“Hurkle’s one of Blue Sun, or he used to be,” the desk sergeant said. “So he claims.”

“Didn’t think groups like that ever let anyone leave, not alive anyway,” Nunzio said.

“You’re a bright lad,” the sergeant said. “They don’t. Have a seat. Hurkle won’t be long if he knows what’s good for him.”

As promised, it didn’t take long for Hurkle to show up. He was a wiry, older man with thinning hair, and despite his thickening waist, he moved like the middleweight prizefighter he had once been. Nunzio guessed he was about Neza Molony’s age.

He strutted up to the tall desk and peered up at the representative of Panschin presiding behind it.

“This better be important, sergeant. I got customers waiting.”

“At this time of day?” the sergeant scoffed.

“I got my regulars and you know it. Shift workers and it’s the end of their day even if it’s not the end of yourn.”

“Miss Molony’s got visitors from Barsoom, here for the Biennial Mining Conference. This here’s Nunzio. He’s got a question for you.”

Hurkle and Nunzio gave each other a careful looking-over, filing away little details like stance, ability to move quickly, broken noses, and heavily scarred knuckles against a possible future meeting that was less friendly.

“Yeah? Whaddayawant.”

“I need to know what Blue Sun’s tattoo looks like, Mr. Hurkle,” Nunzio replied. “That man threatening Miss Bradwell got me worried.”

“You think he’s Blue Sun?” Hurkle asked, his face stony.

“I do not know one way or the other,” Nunzio said. “I did not get a good look at him and in case he comes back, I’d like to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Show him, Hurkle, and quit wasting my time and yours,” the desk sergeant said wearily.

Hurkle sniffed audibly, then turned his head to the side and showed off the right side of his thick neck. There, just below his cauliflower ear, was a faded blue circle, about the size of a large thumbnail. It wasn’t especially showy against his dull, olive green skin, looking more like a shadow if you didn’t know what it was.

Nunzio peered at it closely. “This little blue circle could be anywhere?”

“Anywhere it shows,” the sergeant said. “But it has to show, even when the man is fully dressed. Doesn’t have to be obvious, just there.”

“Happy now? I’m not with them no more and you know it, sergeant,” Hurkle said. “And why, sergeant, are you putting me out for some out-of-towner?”

Nunzio answered swiftly, to forestall the desk sergeant. “Because the only reason I can see for someone wanting that house when other houses are going begging is because there’s something valuable hidden in it, like big bags of money. That kind of thing draws crooks and Blue Sun, so I am told, are a gang of crooks.”

Hurkle gave him a disdainful look. “We are a social organization.”

“Sure you are,” the sergeant said. “But this matter concerns me. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want that house. But Nunzio is right. Would any of your former associates be interested in the White Elephant if Simon Bradwell hid bags of money in it?”

“They’d be interested. Who wouldn’t be interested in big bags of money? But those ladies are as poor as mine mice and everyone in Dome Two knows it. Blue Sun is a social organization and we’d do our best to help out the ladies, like we would any needy household,” Hurkle said piously. “You know we hand out charity and take care of our own. We don’t rob old ladies and their nieces.”

“You help out Miss Molony and Miss Bradwell?” Nunzio asked.

“I buy Miss Veronica’s radishes whenever the Dappled Yak don’t,” Hurkle said. “Just like I buy Helga Grisson’s eggs for the bar. Pickles them nice, she does.”

“Hurkle,” the desk sergeant said. “If you hear anything, I need to know. And spread the word with your former associates. Someone from outside of Panschin might be causing trouble and I’m sure they don’t want to get blamed.”

Hurkle’s face hardened. “No worries on that score, sergeant. Now if you’re done showing off my old tats, I got customers waiting.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hurkle, for taking time out of your day to help me,” Nunzio said. “If I got time later on, I’ll stop by for a pint and a chat. So’s I know who not to worry over.”

“Just Hurkle,” the bartender replied. “I like Miss Veronica and I like Miss Molony more. It’s not Blue Sun threatening them and if it is, I _will_ know the reason why.” He spun on his heel and stalked out the door.

As Hurkle made his way through the crowded lobby, Nunzio watched carefully. As he had suspected they might, people nodded politely and got out of the old man’s way as if he were something more than just another elderly bartender.

“Happy?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes, sergeant, I am. And just so you know, since I’m guessing everyone in the dome will stop by to tell you, when I’m not with my boss, I’ll be walking around the neighborhood,” Nunzio said. “Seeing what I can see.”

Nunzio walked out through the lobby, the crowd once again parting before him, while the desk sergeant thought hard. Nunzio Jones’ suggestion could be the reason why the ladies were being harassed. But who was his boss that he needed an employee like that one? He was hired muscle, if the desk sergeant was any judge, and very few mining executives needed hired muscle.

*****

Dean slipped out of his flat in Dome Six far too early that morning. It was becoming increasingly urgent he speak to Veronica and it was becoming equally urgent that he catch her alone. Unfortunately, the early hour filled the transtubes to Dome Two with hordes of both the unwashed and the uncouth. None of them made room as they should for a gentleman; indeed, they didn’t acknowledge his superior presence at all. It was all very lowering but Dean could no longer afford to take the upper level tram.

By the time he reached Oleander Lane in Dome Two, he was seething with resentment against his situation and against Veronica for being so difficult. What had happened to the sweet, pliant, and so very agreeable Dome Six princess he had married?

He crouched behind a planter spilling over with marigolds, trying hard to keep from sneezing from their pollen-laden closeness. He knew Veronica loved flowers and couldn’t understand why she no longer grew them in the White Elephant’s tiny garden. She had more than enough space. When they had first married and moved into the White Elephant, she had filled most of the beds with a wide variety of flowers. Those beds now were a wilderness of random green plants that didn’t seem to fill any function. It was irritating how she no longer cared when she used to make such a fuss over those useless flowers. Would it be worth stealing some from the planter as a peace offering?

As the street filled with pedestrians, Dean retreated to the abandoned house across the street from the White Elephant. He sat behind the wall, partly concealed by a statue so overgrown with terraformers it could have been a tall, narrow shrub. He had carefully dressed for the occasion, choosing his oldest, drabbest clothes so as to not attract any notice and so far, it seemed to be working. The thought struck him that this might be why he had not gotten any respect on the transtube, actually having to argue over receiving a seat he had paid for. It just went to show that the lower classes couldn’t recognize their betters, going with superficial cues such as clothing instead of noticing topnotch breeding and quality manners.

He waited, bored and irritated, and waited some more, on edge as people arrived at the White Elephant and then gratified when they finally left. Shelby, that supposed prude, left holding hands with a man but not the one she had arrived with the night before. Clearly, she wasn’t the innocent young miss she claimed to be. Worryingly, today’s man was as large as the brutish miner she’d brought home the night before although much better dressed. Florence had her boyfriend hanging about as did Lulu, that vicious bitch. Then another man left, that supposed distant relative from Barsoom although Dean couldn’t get a clear look at him as too many people were blocking his view, and at last, Neza left with still another hulking brute. What exactly was his former wife doing in that house, now that he was no longer there to keep an eye on things?

She stood by the garden wall, pensively watching her aunt Neza leave with that brute and then, to Dean’s immense relief, his former wife didn’t go back inside. Instead she got to work in the garden beds, on her hands and knees like the peasant she had become. His time to persuade Veronica had come at last. She was alone and whoever her fool houseguest was, he was gone, along with everyone else.


	23. mistakes have been made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but only the ex gets punched so thats okay
> 
> Or: Dean confronts Veronica and Airik is nearly found out

Dean took another careful look around to make sure Veronica was alone in the White Elephant’s tiny side garden and then waited while she settled in, concentrating on getting her hands filthy. He stood, dusted himself clean of terraformers, and then casually walked across the street like he belonged there, and indeed he did. Those few remaining passersby who nodded to him recognized him as Veronica’s former husband and a still frequent and accepted visitor into her home.

A rickshaw hauler went so far as to say, “Mr. Kangjuon, I know you’re not married to Miss Veronica no more, but I want you to know, we’re keeping an eye out for her safety. That goon won’t show up around here again with everyone in the dome watching out for him.”

Dean forced out a gracious smile. “Thank you. I know Veronica appreciates your concern and so do I.”

He opened the unoiled gate carefully, wincing as it screeched. Why didn’t Veronica maintain it anymore? Why didn’t Neza say something? He was afraid its shriek would alert her, so he quickstepped down the path to where she was working on a bed before she could react. It was disgusting how she dug her hands into the soil between those weeds, wrenching apart lumps of slime and working them into the dirt. She used to stroke him all over with those hands.

Veronica looked up at the gate’s scream, suddenly alert, and then Dean came striding around the path right towards her. His mouth was open, ready with new lies and she didn’t want to hear any of them.

She leapt to her feet and said, “Dean, get off my property right now or I’ll call the police.”

Dean frowned awfully and then pasted a smile on his face. “Ronnie, sweetheart, I know we got off on the wrong foot last night, but I really --”

“I mean it, Dean,” Veronica snarled at him. “I will never speak to you again. I will never help you again. I will never do anything for you again, no matter what it is. You gave me one of the worst days of my life and then you tried to turn my little sister into your whore so you could pimp her out to your friends! Shelby told me everything _so_ _**get**_ _**OUT!**_ ”

Her voice rose with every word until she was screaming and upstairs, Airik heard her voice through the open window and looked up from the documents that Chung/Banerjee had provided on their patented respirators. He dropped the papers onto the table, stopped dictating in mid-sentence to Upton, and marched over to the open window to see what was happening to Veronica Bradwell.

*****

Malcolm arrived at the bank’s office with a spring in his step and a heart filled with joy. She saw him. He was no longer an invisible man of glass. His beautiful Dome Two princess saw him and better, she wanted to see more of him. Shelby didn’t care he was a scholarship boy, she didn’t sneer at his family, and she cared enough about his wellbeing to worry over what being seen with the daughter of Simon Bradwell would do to him. Shelby cared and he was going to do his damnedest to save her from Burgess.

The thug’s whereabouts was worrisome and while he was making discreet inquiries, the fact remained the police would do a better job. His insistence on them doing their job along with Mr. Wong’s own demands would no doubt spur them to greater efforts. But they could not do anything about Burgess and his threats to evict her. He could.

Malcolm had no doubt Burgess would falsify records to get the Bradwells thrown out. It was up to him to make sure he couldn’t do such a thing. And there was his other project, the one he had been working on for months. He was sure that Burgess was dirty, or at least grossly incompetent. There was something there, revealed by the mysterious holes in the Second National Bank of Panschin’s records. Documents lacking a page, with amended text, heavily redacted, stained into unreadability, or missing entirely told him as much.

But why? Burgess had -- if not the respect of his peers -- power, connections and wealth. Yet there had been something in his expression when he found out who was living in the White Elephant during the gallery showing. He had looked, just for a moment, afraid. Perhaps his success had not been enough for him. Perhaps, like Simon Bradwell, he wanted more.

Malcolm had a sudden flash of insight into Mr. Burgess’s character. Like Malcolm, he wanted more than what he had been granted at birth. The difference was _he_ didn’t destroy other people’s lives to get what he wanted. Burgess, like Simon Bradwell, not only didn’t care what he did to the lives of others; he also took pleasure in trampling on them.

There was something there. He could feel it. The reason _why_ Burgess had reacted so strongly to discovering Veronica Bradwell lived in the White Elephant niggled at him. Burgess had not known this fact. How could he have? The lease was held by Neza Molony. She had not, Malcolm was unsure on the point but he believed it to be true, gone out much in Panschin society. She had never married and apparently lived a quiet life in the formerly fashionable Dome Two. Her grandparents had signed that lease when Dome Two was new and _the_ place to live in Panschin. Then Simon Bradwell’s schemes had imploded and she had taken in her great-nieces to live with her in her empty and decaying mansion.

Why did Burgess care so much? The Bradwell sisters had virtually nothing left to their names and Neza Molony didn’t have much more. There was nothing Burgess could seize that had not already been stripped from them by their social ruin, the string of lawsuits, and the loss of every single asset, other than an obscure relative who had given them sanctuary after Simon Bradwell’s schemes came crashing down on them all.

Malcolm stopped dead by the grand front door to the once grand building still housing the Second National Bank of Panschin, his hand still on the polished brass handle. He knew. He had to prove it, but he knew.

Burgess had known Simon Bradwell.

Everyone at that level either knew each other or had friends and business partners in common. Maybe, they had known each other better than that. Maybe, they had worked together to swindle the citizens of Panschin. Or, perhaps, Burgess had been so incompetent that he had not recognized Simon Bradwell’s schemes for what they were. If he had not done his due diligence, by extension the Second National Bank of Panschin would still be at fault, even after all the time that had passed. The Bank would be sued and would punish Burgess for raining down trouble upon it. In addition, Burgess himself would be personally liable and a ripe target for prosecution from those families whose fury at Simon Bradwell would never fade. Burgess was a wealthy man from a wealthy family. The lawsuits wouldn’t stop until he was as destitute as the Bradwell sisters, and perhaps not even then.

It was hard to say which option was true. Burgess was a slimy sack of shit. He treated everyone below him socially as dross under his shoes and toadied to everyone higher up. Was he a crook? Or was he incompetent? Either way, he was afraid of the daughters of Simon Bradwell and what they might reveal.

Malcolm walked through the shabby lobby of the Second National Bank of Panschin towards his office, deep in thought and ignoring his surroundings.

“Nice of you to finally show up at work, Cobb. My office, now,” Mr. Wong said.

He had been laying in wait instead of remaining in his own office, where, Malcolm was sure, he normally did nothing but rearrange his pencils.

Malcolm concealed a growl. He had a far more important task ahead of him than listening to a lecture about dragging Shelby and the crème of Panschin’s youth into the Steelio warren particularly when those students, despite all their protests of solidarity, wanted nothing to do with actually setting foot into the deepdown.

“Yes, sir.”

Once inside Mr. Wong’s faded office, with the door firmly shut against the curious eyes of the tellers, Malcolm said, “as promised, I took good care of Miss Bradwell.”

“Oh, I knew that,” Mr. Wong said dismissively. “One of our junior tellers, Doris, boards with Mrs. Grisson and she already told me.”

“Oh.”

“Cobb.” Mr. Wong sat back in his big chair with a slight smile. “The filing cabinets in the second subbasement need scrubbing and you’re just the man for the job.”

Malcolm sucked in his breath and clenched his fists, not caring that Mr. Wong could see them. Cabinets that hadn’t been looked at in over a century and he was to scrape them clean of terraformers?

“Oh? May I ask why when we have janitors for that job?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Mr. Wong took his time answering, picking up and putting down one pencil after another across the pristine blotting paper on his desk, until each had been properly aligned with its fellows and Malcolm was seething and fully aware of his place in the hierarchy.

“You like to think you know things, Cobb,” Mr. Wong said at last, breaking the angry silence. “Did you know that this branch of Second National used to be the premier branch in our bank?”

“I was aware of that.” ‘Damn you,’ Malcolm thought. ‘A useless hack looking for make-work to remind me who’s the boss. I know Burgess has it in for you but do you have to punish me too?’

“Did you know that, to ensure the safety and completeness of Second National’s recordkeeping, a copy of every document generated within Second National, no matter how minor, is required to be filed here in our branch? As you might imagine, we have multiple subbasements jammed with filing cabinets, all carefully arranged in order by date and subject. Most of the senior executives do not know that little fact, although their secretaries do.”

Malcolm stared at Mr. Wong, at a complete loss for words.

“Nothing to say, Cobb? That’s not like you.”

“Every document, Mr. Wong?” Malcolm said, his heart suddenly racing. His fingers loosened themselves from fists and fanned of their own accord.

“Every. Document. Did it never once occur to you to wonder why we have so large a staff? That’s sloppy thinking on your part, Cobb. Those files are being continuously updated and all that filing has to be done by someone.” Mr. Wong gazed steadily at Malcolm, his eyes again bright with intelligence instead of their usual dull haze.

Malcolm suddenly realized Mr. Wong was giving him the keys to a treasure trove of data; data that would allow him to prove Burgess was either a crook or an incompetent sack of slime. Down there, forgotten by everyone, was the information he needed to rescue Shelby and her sister.

“Thank you, Mr. Wong,” Malcolm said gratefully. “I’ll get right on it.”

“The filing cabinets are labeled and you _could_ start cleaning wherever you choose. However, _I_ demand you begin with the following cabinets,” Mr. Wong said. He handed a sheet of paper to Malcolm covered with neat columns of his immaculate handwriting. “They are, I must say, the filthiest.”

Malcolm read the dates, then met Mr. Wong’s eyes, filled with reasons his boss could not say aloud. “Yes, sir,” he said respectfully and this time, he meant it.

“Hurry,” Mr. Wong said and pointed to the door.

*****

Airik leaned out the upstairs window, trying to spot Veronica. Despite the tiny yard, he didn’t see her and realized she had to be in the even smaller side garden. He wasn’t sure he recognized Dean Kangjuon’s voice, then decided that he had and he needed to get downstairs right away.

“Upton,” he called on his way to the door. “Keep working.”

His secretary stared after him, mouth open and his fingers unmoving on the typewriter’s keys. What on Mars was wrong with Airik? He rarely paid attention to his surroundings when he was dictating a report and he certainly never stopped in mid-sentence. Upton got up and ran to the window and clearly heard Veronica telling someone else to go away and that person refusing. Not seeing anyone from the window, he left the room and headed to the window at the end of the hallway, figuring it would oversee the side garden and it did.

Below him, he saw Miss Bradwell and someone he assumed was her idiot former husband, although Upton hadn’t paid much attention to him being otherwise occupied on each of the ex’s previous appearances with either the possibility of charming women or his sinuses. And then he saw Airik come racing around the side of the White Elephant.

*****

The daimyo of Shelleen was furious. Miss Bradwell, _his_ Miss Bradwell, was being harassed _again_ in her own home. Her worthless former husband had returned, despite being told in no uncertain terms to stay the hell away. Airik tore down the hallway, took the stairs two at a time, and made the snap decision to use the front door rather than try to find his way through the maze of rooms leading to a door that might be closer to where she was being threatened.

***

“Ronnie! Wait, please, you don’t understand!” Dean said, backing away from his no longer sweet and compliant ex-wife. She had turned into an armed harridan, menacing him with some sort of gardening tool that he knew he did not want to get close to.

Veronica raised her clawed hand cultivator at Dean. A large bird of prey would have envied those metal talons. She’d never used it on anything but turning over soil in a garden bed, but right now, she wanted to rake it across her ex-husband’s face and chest, tearing the flesh down to the bone.

“I do understand! Get the hellation out of my garden!”

“If you don’t help me, I’ll lose everything, Ronnie.”

“So? Join the crowd!”

“This is your fault!” Dean roared. “I wouldn’t be in this fix if it weren’t for you. You have to help me, you worthless bitch! You ruined me!”

“ _What_? Get out!” Veronica screamed back. Her ears rang and a red haze descended over her eyes. She slashed at him with the hand cultivator and he stepped back, right into Airik Jones who had come racing around the building.

Airik didn’t hesitate.

He drove his fist into the back of Dean’s neck, snapping his head back and then forward. All the fight abandoned Dean and he went limp from pain and shock, staggering forward towards Veronica, who scrambled away. Airik grabbed Dean roughly by his collar, reached down between his legs, grabbed him there by the loose cloth, strode the few steps to the low side wall and tossed Veronica’s former husband over the wall and into the thick terraformers carpeting the garden of the ruin next door. The terraformers burst upwards in a cloud of gray and brown and gold bits, showering the surrounding area with debris and filling the air with dusty spores.

Veronica watched in shock. “You really can throw someone over a wall,” she sputtered.

“It’s a low wall,” Airik said. “Plus, Kangjuon stopped fighting once I sucker-punched him.”

Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he was having some trouble getting his heartrate back down and his breathing under control. He was still furious with Dean, as well as amazed at his own quick and vicious response. All those tedious exercises and hundreds of hours of boring training had paid off. He hadn’t thought at all over what to do. He had just done it. He looked at his fist curiously, then stretched out his fingers. His knuckles hurt and probably would for some time. He hunted regularly in Shelleen, but he had never experienced this surge of adrenaline-soaked rage at any stage in the process, just as he didn’t experience the same fury when practicing his self-defense.

“That should be bad, sucker-punching someone,” Veronica said slowly, trying to feel some sympathy for her former husband through her own fear and nausea. “But I don’t think I care.”

“You shouldn’t, Miss Bradwell. Kangjuon would have hurt you.” Airik thought again of how Kangjuon had gripped Veronica’s arm at the gallery showing, not wanting to let her go. Her former husband kept coming back, wanting something from her. She had nothing of material value left other than herself, yet he returned. That particular thought filled him with jealous fury.

Veronica looked down at her hand cultivator. Her own heart was still racing. She could have ripped Dean open with it. She had _wanted_ to hurt him, a very unsettling thought. She waved it at Airik. Her eyes were very wide and her breathing was unsteady. “Maybe not.”

Airik studied her hand cultivator. Veronica’s hand was shaking badly, making the talons flash in the sun. The metal claws were discolored by bits of terraformers clinging to them.

“You would have had to keep him from taking the cultivator from you and then using it against you. Kangjuon would have been strong enough to do that, and I think, angry enough.” As he said it, Airik knew he was correct. Dean would have plunged the cultivator into Veronica’s body, tearing at her, ripping her open, injuring her severely, possibly even killing her. He would have killed Dean for that, despite being in Panschin where he did not enjoy the power he held in Shelleen.

He stopped and stared at Veronica, who was swaying slightly from the shocking violence.

“I am very glad I came down as fast as I did. He would have hurt you.”

Veronica sat down suddenly onto the gravel path. Her legs no longer wanted to support her. “Yes, you’re right. Dean would have,” she said wonderingly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

Airik went to her and knelt down by her side, his face concerned.

She looked over at the stacked stone wall, high enough to easily conceal Dean’s body from her sitting position. Was he dead? ‘Please no,’ Veronica thought and closed her eyes in pain. ‘His family will destroy me.’

Then, to her immense relief, Dean groaned and coughed.

Airik stiffened next to her and stood up at once.

“Leave, Mr. Kangjuon, and do not come back,” he said.

Dean crawled to a sitting position and leaned, panting, against a statue so overgrown with terraformers it had turned into a pillar of moss. He was smeared from head to foot with green and brown moss. He groaned and swore with every movement as he struggled to stand, using the pillar to hold onto. Green and gold and brown motes swirled around him. Blood ran from his nose, leaving scarlet trickles across his face, his body, and onto the terraformers at his feet.

“I was afraid he was dead,” Veronica said to Airik. She turned away from Dean, so she would not ever have to look at him again.

“The terraformers were thick enough to break his fall,” Airik said, taking refuge in analytical thought. “I would surmise none of his bones were broken or he would be making far more noise. Possibly a cracked rib although I believe he would be breathing with more difficulty if that were true.”

“You could have cracked my skull open,” Dean snarled, some of his fight returning since he had a wall between him and his former wife’s supposed houseguest. He winced and clutched the back of his head. The goose egg was developing fast. He could see stars mixed in with the floating spores and his head rang. His body ached all over; the knee-deep carpet of terraformers hadn’t been deep enough to completely cushion his fall.

“I didn’t hit you that hard,” Airik said. “If you cannot leave under your own power, I will summon the police and have them remove you for trespassing.”

“I am going,” Dean said to the cloud of spores dancing around him. He then glared at Veronica’s back. “You will be sorry for this.”

“I am not in the least bit sorry and I will never speak to you again, Dean,” Veronica replied, her back still turned to her ex-husband. She struggled to her own feet, Airik immediately bending over to assist her. She did not so much as glance at Dean and walked slowly down the path, back inside the safety of the White Elephant.

Airik did not follow her immediately. He watched Dean stagger across the overgrown garden of the ruin next door to its own gate, lean there panting, and then open the gate, dust himself cleaner, and stumble down the street. Then and only then, he went inside the White Elephant to find Veronica.

***

Upton gaped in open-mouthed shock from his vantage point at the second-floor window at the end of the hallway. Airik, who normally killed things by analyzing them until they died of boredom, hadn’t hesitated. Reserved, tedious, awkward Airik had behaved like a savage from the Wild Side. He watched Airik follow Miss Bradwell around the side of the White Elephant and realized he didn’t want to be caught out of place and scurried back into the room Airik was using as an office.

As his heartrate returned to normal, Upton realized again why the senior family had chosen Airik to be the daimyo. It certainly wasn’t his inspiring leadership and charisma. It wasn’t just his brilliance or his work ethic. It wasn’t even his comprehensive plan to keep the Martian government out of Shelleen while developing the Red Mercury lode. They had recognized that Airik could be utterly ruthless when he needed to be, as a daimyo had to be to succeed. The secretary thought again of Howard Shelleen and his agonized screams in the stone courtyard, the horrible noises reverberating against the manor house and searing themselves into everyone’s memory forever. Airik had ordered a senior and important member of the family be flogged in front of peasants for damaging the demesne. What would Airik do to someone who wasn’t a relative?

Upton looked over the report Airik had abandoned to rescue Veronica Bradwell. What would Airik want done next? Was there something he could do while Airik was occupied, something that would remind Airik that his secretary was a valued and productive member of the family? He coughed, then coughed again and sneezed repeatedly. Airik throwing the ex-husband bodily into the blanket of terraformers in the yard next door had released a huge cloud of spores. They were drifting into every open window and would take hours to resettle. There was no breeze in the dome to safely disperse them far away.

When he was able to stop sneezing and hacking, Upton eyed the containers of tea Lulu had packed for him at Airik’s direction. He had been feeling much better, despite the occasional bout of dizziness, and planning to discreetly pour them down a drain. Instead, he drank down one container, trying hard not to taste it and trying harder to ignore the unpleasant floating chunks of herbs tickling his gullet on their way down.

When he had swallowed it all, Upton sat back down, picked up the report, and began typing Airik’s scattered notes while he waited for his boss to return. The tedious detail work was welcome as it let him block out just how strong, how decisive, Airik had been. How ruthless. And all, Upton thought wonderingly, in the service of some destitute nobody from Panschin.

*****

Veronica mechanically made her way into the White Elephant, through the atrium, down the hallways, and into the kitchen where she made herself tea, one step after the other, one scoop of the precious leaves into the strainer, waiting for the water to boil while she stared at the kitten calendar, and then slowly pouring the scalding water over the leaves and letting the comforting smell of mint fill her nose and block out the smell of coppery blood and fear and rotten moss.

She sat down at the table, breathing in the scent of the mint, letting it fill her, sooth her, and allow her to think again. What was wrong with Dean? He had gone insane. Mr. Jones was right. Dean would have hurt her. Something was very wrong with her former husband. She was very lucky Mr. Jones had been there and even more fortunate that Mr. Jones had been willing to help her.

Why had he helped her? He didn’t seem to expect anything from her. Mr. Jones had never been less than respectful; he was the model of a gentleman. He didn’t, she thought, grasp the full ramifications of her being Simon Bradwell’s daughter. If word got out, his own business dealings would suffer. If he had, he would have treated her like the pariah the rest of Panschin society thought her to be. He would have left by now. It had to be, Veronica decided, that Mr. Jones needed a quiet stay for reasons of his own and he aimed to get it. If he had to keep Dean outside the White Elephant so he could get work done, he would. Her little family would be safe, at least until Mr. Jones left Panschin and returned to Barsoom. Or until someone told him whose nest of cave-vipers he was sleeping in.

What work did he need to do that required such privacy and a bodyguard?

“Miss Bradwell?”

Veronica started and gasped. Her heart raced again. She hadn’t known she had closed her eyes, letting Mr. Jones slip up on her unawares. He was a paying guest and in the shabby kitchen of the White Elephant, rather than the far more presentable dining room.

She found her voice. “Forgive me. Let me bring you some tea to the dining room where you can be comfortable.”

“I am quite fine, Miss Bradwell,” Mr. Jones said. “I am concerned about you.”

She looked up at him. How could she have ever believed him to be average in appearance? There was nothing average about Airik Jones.

“I,” she sighed. “I don’t know what to say other than to thank you again for helping me.” Veronica looked up at Mr. Jones, standing next to her, meeting his concerned eyes.

Airik stared down into Veronica’s dark, luminous eyes, wanting to fall into them like falling into a pool of cool water on a sultry summer day.

“It needed to be done,” he said and wanted to wince again. Whenever he was around Veronica, such a beautiful name, any conversation he was able to make vanished and every word out of his mouth sounded banal. Upton would have known what to say. He always knew what to say to a lovely woman.

“Yes, it did,” she said. She broke away from staring at his face and stared at her own reflection in the polished table. “I don’t know what’s wrong with Dean. He was never, ever this way when we were married. He hated arguing. But lately, I just don’t know.” She wiped her eyes suddenly, surprising them both with a spurt of unwanted tears.

“I’m glad you helped me and even gladder you didn’t kill Dean. His family would destroy what was left of us.”

Airik frowned. “But he attacked you. He had been making threats.”

Veronica snorted at his incomprehension of the facts of life in Panschin. “None of that would matter to the Kangjuon family. Dean’s their only child. There are no grandchildren and very few other relatives, other than the most distant of cousins. The line will die with him if he doesn’t remarry and father sons.”

“Ah. A sad and familiar story, but nonetheless,” Airik said. “That does not give him license to harass you.”

“It shouldn’t,” Veronica agreed. “Would you like some tea in the dining room?” ‘Why did I ask him again,’ she wondered. ‘What is wrong with me?’

Airik thought quickly. Veronica wanted to give him tea. Her hands wrapped around her own cup were still trembling, making the tea shiver and threaten to spill over the lip of the cup and scald her hands. She was quite likely still in shock from the experience. She needed to show her gratitude in a more tangible way than words. She needed to focus on something other than her former husband attacking her. He could let her do this for him. It would please her and settle her and he could sit with her in the dining room as she grew calmer.

“Yes, some tea in the dining room would be fine,” he replied and was rewarded with Veronica’s nervous and relieved smile.

*****

Upton laid the finished report on the table and began sorting through the rest of Airik’s papers to see what he should start on next. He spotted Elliot’s painfully precise handwriting and picked up the document to see what secret project the valet had been doing for Airik. The name ‘Simon Bradwell’ leaped out at him. Simon Bradwell? Was he a relation to the Bradwell sisters?

Upton began reading and then couldn’t stop. They were staying with the daughters of a man who had done his best to ensure his name would be a byword for avarice and embezzlement for generations. Why on Mars were they still here if Airik knew? Did he dare say anything to Airik?

The secretary very carefully slid the document back into the position in the stack of reports he had found it in. Did he dare say anything to anyone? Airik had chosen, for reasons known only to him, to remain at the White Elephant. He had to have understood that no one in Panschin would do business with him if they learned he was connected to Simon Bradwell’s daughters.

He didn’t know what to do. What would the senior members of the family say to this? Airik’s furious face rose before his eyes. He could pretend he knew nothing, that’s what he could do. It would be safer, at least for now. The Biennial Mining Conference would end and they could leave Panschin and return home to Shelleen. Perhaps, Upton thought hopefully, once Airik left this contaminated city of domes and spores, his sanity would return. Airik had to be insane. It was the only reasonable explanation for his behavior.

Another wave of dizziness struck him and he began sneezing again, scattering the stack of documents he had held. When he recovered, Upton began hastily resorting all the scattered papers. Airik had been quite clear about which reports he needed for the day’s scheduled meetings. Upton knew he didn’t want to make any mistakes after seeing how Airik punished Veronica Bradwell’s ex-husband.

*****

Airik sipped the tea Veronica poured for him. He was relieved to see her hands had stopped trembling and her breathing had steadied. His own hands were steadier. She sat next to him at the table, nibbling on a green cracker that smelled of yeast and moss. Probably something else grown in the food tanks of Panschin and processed into quasi-edibility, Airik decided. He didn’t want to leave her alone and retreat back upstairs to his notes on the Chung/Banerjee report. He couldn’t think of anything to say, other than to talk about the weather, and there was no weather in Panschin.

He had not expected to miss the weather, the daily change of the wind and clouds, how the sun traveled across the sky, and how the stars filled each night. He missed rain, he missed being outside, he missed being part of the natural world. The domes kept the far north’s climate at bay, but the residents lost as much as they gained. He missed the sun’s movements and warmth and light. The White Elephant was surprisingly well-designed to allow as much light inside as possible from what was available in the dome. Yet inside, the house was never sunny and cheerful as even the meanest peasant’s cottage could become in Shelleen. It always felt like a heavily overcast day, gray and dismal.

He could not talk about the weather.

He watched her discreetly, how her hand kept going to the beads at her throat. Veronica had worn the same necklace, with its matching earbobs, since he had arrived. He still hadn’t figured out what kind of stone the beads were carved from. Each bead was irregular in shape, a shiny, cloudy gray with bits of white and darker gray laced through it. Not one bead precisely matched its fellows. It was very unlike the jewelry styles he was familiar with.

This was something he could talk about. In his experience, many women liked to discuss jewelry, although Veronica Bradwell might not belong to that cohort since she didn’t seem to own any, other than these odd cloudy beads.

Airik had always been fascinated by minerals but his own interests in crystalline structure and industrial usage didn’t coincide with those of jewelry wearers. The subject had become increasingly painful. He wanted to talk about the geologic processes whereby gems were formed and the potential marriage partners that kept being foisted on him wanted to talk about how many diamonds he was willing to pay for. The avarice those young women displayed was off-putting in the extreme. Airik wasn’t normally particularly imaginative and he knew it. Yet, it always seemed that when he brought up the subject of gemology, the woman (or her eager relatives) had credit signs flashing in their eyes.

He plunged in anyway. At the very least, he would learn what exceedingly rare stone her beads were made from.

“Miss Bradwell?”

“Yes?” Veronica looked up at Mr. Jones.

“I keep noticing your beads. I know something about gems, yet I don’t recognize the variety of stones.”

She smiled at him suddenly and the sun came out again, lighting up the dining room.

“I’m not surprised.” Veronica fingered her necklace again, remembering. Her eyes were far away.

“I love jewelry. I just love it. So beautiful. So many kinds and types, sparkling gems by themselves and all the colors that gold comes in. I love owning and wearing jewelry, choosing something special to wear every day to match what I’m wearing and doing. They’re wearable miniature works of art that I can touch and carry with me all day.”

Airik’s heart sank.

“This is an unusual stone?” he asked, trying not to think ‘gold-digger’. He’d met so many of them and they had all said very similar things.

Veronica laughed, a gurgle like a brook skipping over smooth river stones on a bright, sunny day.

“They’re not any kind of stone.” She gazed across the table at him curiously. He looked so serious, as though what she said was of critical importance to him. “I bought them from a street vendor, before everything happened. They were so pretty. I thought they looked like the moons.” She smiled again at nothing in particular, as though she was seeing something only she could see.

Airik waited, disconcerted. He hadn’t known you could buy expensive jewelry from street vendors. The thought struck him. If the beads were valuable, why did she still have them? The Bradwell family was openly and obviously poor. Did she love her jewelry that much? The notion was disheartening.

“They’re slag glass, that’s what the old man told me. He salvaged the slag from the glassworks in Dome Four and turned the broken bits into beads.”

“Slag glass?” He stared at her and at her beads. No wonder he hadn’t recognized it as a stone. Slag glass was industrial waste, a byproduct left over at the end of a run.

“I thought they looked like the moons,” Veronica said in a dreamy, wistful voice. “I saw them once. We’re too far north in Panschin for them to go much above the horizon and of course you can’t see them inside the domes at all. I had gone to a party at someone’s summerhouse just before Dean and I got married. Then I saw these beads and I remembered that night, standing on the terrace and watching the stars come out and the moons race by each other.”

“Our moons are unique,” Airik said. “They come out during the day too. Their rotation periods are very short and so you see them often.”

Veronica chuckled softly. “If you live outside the domes, further south. Here, well, you don’t see them. It looked like they were going to crash into each other.”

“Yes, Phobos rotates in under eight hours while Deimos takes slightly more than a day, thus their orbits appear to frequently intersect.” Airik wanted to kick himself. He was reciting a child’s astronomy textbook. “They’re actually made of carbonaceous chondrite; a sort of rubble that comprises most asteroids.” Gods, but he wanted to kick himself harder. Now he sounded like a geology textbook. Maybe he should take lessons from Upton, despite the embarrassment. Upton always had something smooth to say.

To his intense relief, Veronica did not get up and walk away from him, radiating scorn.

“I didn’t know that, about what they’re made of. It sounds very unromantic.”

“Asteroids are made from what made our solar system. The stuff of stars,” Airik said.

She smiled at him and touched her necklace again, running her hands over the beads. “But not slag glass?”

“No, I would say not,” Airik said.

“So my beads are not made of star stuff.”

“I would not say that either,” Airik said thoughtfully. “In the end, all of us are made of star stuff. Suns and their solar systems are made from what forms the galaxies. Matter is not created. Everything we are has existed since time began when the universe was formed. The shapes change but the essential nature does not. Silica becomes glass, but it remains, at heart, silica.”

“You must think me very shallow,” Veronica said slowly. “Dean thought I was being silly. Thinking that slag glass is beautiful or that it can resemble the moons of Mars.”

“He was wrong and I would never think that,” Airik said, equally slowly. “All kinds of things have beauty, even if it is not commonly recognized as such.” He had always thought the layers of sedimentary rock, crumpled and heaving, to be beautiful. They said so much about eons of time and the slow, endlessly patient hand of nature. They spoke to their observer, if that person was willing to listen.

“This is your favorite necklace then?” he asked, not wanting to walk away.

Veronica chuckled, a sound threaded with sadness. “It’s my only necklace. I had to sell everything else to pay bills.”

She caught his expression. “Please, do _not_ feel sorry for me. I don’t. These beads are completely worthless, even the pawnshop wouldn’t take them, and so I can keep them.” She smiled again, her eyes once more far away. “When I touch them, I think of the moons of Mars and how, someday, I’ll be able to see them again.”

The gate shrieked its warning again and Veronica gasped and leaped to her feet, her heart racing again. Dean had come back, this time with Kangjuon lawyers, or lawyers sent by the McGrant family, or Mr. Burgess with the sheriff, come to evict them all.

“I will check, Miss Bradwell,” Airik said firmly. “You’ve had a trying morning.”

He marched to the front door and was able to open it for auntie Neza and Nunzio, back from their errands.

However, Nunzio’s return meant that he would have go off to attend to his own business dealings and leave Veronica. Veronica who could discover beauty where most people wouldn’t, Veronica who did not wallow in misery despite what had happened to her, Veronica who sold jewelry she loved when it had to be done to save her family, Veronica with her limpid eyes and joyous smile, Veronica who accepted him as he was.

Veronica, who he was lying to with every word he didn’t say about his own background.


	24. golden masks and silver tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (they wont protect forever, you know)
> 
> Or: Airik’s identity is nearly discovered

Veronica waited until after Airik Jones left for Dome Six to tell Neza what Shelby had admitted the previous night and what Dean had tried to do in the morning.

When she finished, Neza said, “Dreadful. Just dreadful. I do not know where to start. Poor Shelby. Dean must have gone mad. He blamed you? But why?”

“I don’t know,” Veronica answered. “But he’s not allowed back, ever.”

“You never did anything to harm Dean.”

“I know.”

Neza stood back up, painfully. Her joints were hurting worse than usual and she suspected each day’s new anxiety was having something to do with it. “I’d better go tell Mrs. Grisson to spread the word about Dean.”

“No. Wait,” Veronica said quickly. “Dean won’t come back again, I’m sure of it. Wait until Shelby comes home with Florence and Lulu. Then we’ll go to Mrs. Grisson’s house.”

Neza watched her niece carefully. “You don’t want to leave anyone alone, do you.”

“No, I don’t,” Veronica replied, trying very hard not to shiver and worry her aunt still more. “Thinking about it, Dean must have waited until everyone had left and he thought I was alone. He was watching the house.”

“How bizarre,” Neza said. “Dean never liked confrontations. Look how he backed down to his family over you rather than fight them. And he said he’s ruined?”

“Yep, sure did,” Veronica said. “He’s Dean Kangjuon! He’s his family’s golden boy. He can do no wrong in anyone’s eyes. He’s got money, family, connections, good looks, status, reputation, everything he could want. Dean couldn’t be ruined. He became one of Panschin’s most eligible bachelors the day we got divorced. I can’t understand it at all, except that he’s gone crazy.”

Neza watched Veronica carefully as her niece got up and paced about the kitchen restlessly. If Dean wasn’t going to come back, then now was the perfect time to speak with Mrs. Grisson. What Veronica wasn’t saying, her aunt decided, was that _she_ didn’t want to be left in the house alone. And Mr. Jones had come to her rescue. That was interesting too.

*****

Malcolm Cobb hit paydirt in the second file drawer in the first cabinet he opened. He smiled icily at the decades-old report in his hand. It detailed one of Simon Bradwell’s earliest investment schemes and Burgess had signed off on it in his own handwriting as ‘perfect for our clients and a guaranteed return for them and us’. He recommended it highly and suggested, in his notes, that Second National support Simon Bradwell’s endeavors in the future.

Hmm. Burgess might not have been dirty back then. Simon Bradwell might not have been lying back then. Even so, any lawyer in Panschin could use this report to file what would be the first of an avalanche of lawsuits on behalf of Simon Bradwell’s defrauded clients. Burgess’s reputation would be tainted, even if all he did was demonstrate incompetence. But if he were dirty and involved in Simon Bradwell’s embezzlement schemes, his reputation would be destroyed, his family left ruined and destitute, and he would earn a one-way ticket to the Dirac mines.

Why had Mr. Wong not done something with any of these reports? Malcolm sat back, thinking hard. Because he wouldn’t have suspected a connection between Burgess and Simon Bradwell. He had no reason to do so until after Burgess complained to him about Simon Bradwell’s daughter, Veronica. Wong also had too much to lose. He couldn’t disappear into the tunnels with his family; as born and bred Dome Six dwellers, they wouldn’t know where to go, would be unable to fit in, and would have no one to help them make the difficult adjustments.

But he could allow Malcolm to take the risk, a risk that would benefit both of them. He could carefully direct his underling’s search, all the while doing what he was known to do here in the branch office: nothing. Even everything he had said in the office, if overheard, could be read as a punishment for Malcolm Cobb being uppity. Mr. Wong was demonstrating a subtle mind. What else did he know?

Malcolm abruptly realized something else. The daimyo of Shelleen had been correct: like Miss Bradwell, he needed allies and they were sometimes found where you didn’t expect them. But allies had their own agenda.

Mr. Wong had a subtle mind. That particular thought niggled insistently at Malcolm. There was risk and he was allowing Malcolm to take this risk, while carefully avoiding that risk himself. Was there more than one risk? Malcolm looked at the report in his hand again, typed on the letterhead of the headquarters of The Second National Bank of Panschin in Dome Six.

There lay the true risk, a cave-viper laying in wait for the unwary.

He had to use this treasure trove of proof to destroy Burgess without doing equal damage to Second National. If Burgess were to be proved either dirty or incompetent, then their employer, Second National, would also be attacked with lawsuits from all sides. The statute of limitations didn’t run out on this kind of fraud and even if it did, the bank would still spend vaults full of cash defending itself against the avalanche of lawsuits. Public opinion would do the rest to destroy the bank.

Malcolm leaned back against the filing cabinet, sweating suddenly despite the cool, still air. There had to have been other, senior people at Second National who were aware of Burgess recommending Simon Bradwell to their clients. Burgess may have had discreet assistance in covering up his own malfeasance since the higher-ups did not want the bank tarnished and it would have been if these reports were made public.

He would have to proceed very carefully. He could no longer count on disappearing into the tunnels below Panschin if he made a mistake. Second National would punish him severely for bringing this mess to light when it had been so carefully concealed. The bank had a far greater reach than did Burgess by himself.

He began to sweat more. Simon Bradwell had done business with the other banks in Panschin as well. He hadn’t missed a single one. It wasn’t just possible that the other banks had related secrets hidden in their own subbasements full of filing cabinets. It was a certainty.

The Dirac mines beckoned. His family would end up there too, sucked in for some no doubt very good, rational, and publicly acceptable reason. Steelio would be put under immense Panschin-wide pressure to yield them up and he would, if it meant protecting the rest of his company and his miners. He would lose Shelby. She would be destroyed and it would be his fault.

Malcom leaned his head back, studying the motes of dust dancing over the filing cabinets in the shafts of sun the series of deck prisms filtered down from above. He would have to be very, very careful.

And just why had Mr. Wong told him to hurry? Because he needed to race ahead of the avalanche of events or so he would rush ahead blindly, slip, and fall down the hidden shaft?

*****

Airik spent the rest of the morning in one meeting after another in Dome Six. They were slowly becoming more productive as he learned more and the various firms he dealt with began to understand he meant what he said about refusing specious business deals and unwanted marriage arrangements. Every time he pointed out flaws in their presentations, their irritation and respect grew. He wasn’t just another ignorant yokel from the hinterland; a sheep waiting to be sheared, a goose waiting to be plucked. The Shelleen family had chosen him to be their daimyo, the youngest one ever, and they had not been wrong.

He learned more about them too, beginning to see how desperate some were to make a deal with Shelleen. Interestingly, other businesses and the demesnes, while certainly not shy about wanting to work with Shelleen, didn’t have the same driving need to access Shelleen’s cash reserves. Jandinaire and Chung/Banerjee stood out in particular. He could now see the anxiety underlying every word their senior representatives said.

Airik also had repeated opportunities to compare Veronica’s grace under pressure with the horde of marriage prospects being paraded in front of him.

*****

The main luncheon for the Biennial Mining Conference for the day was hosted by the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. There was no avoiding this one since the daimyos of all the attending mining tier demesnes were present, along with the heads of every mining concern in Panschin. As he had expected, all of their eligible female relatives were in attendance. Many of them were surprisingly well-briefed in mining technology as well as having all the credentials required to become the future daimyah of Shelleen. That did not make them look any better in Airik’s eyes, but for no logical reason he could come up with.

The crush of daimyos, their staffs, and the powerful mining concerns did ensure the luncheon was closed to anyone not on the guest list. Airik was annoyed to see he was carefully placed at the center table, surrounded by rings of tables so everyone in the room could watch what he did. The circular tables were large, each seating twelve, which would make conversation difficult. The underlying struggle over who got to sit where must have been intense, a suspicion that Upton confirmed in a low voice when they entered the over-decorated lobby to the even more ornate ballroom.

“I did the best I could, sir. However, we don’t own any portion of the Twelve Happiness and, as it turns out, Maerski, Atto, Fuziwara, and Davis all do, along with half the mining interests in the city.”

“Then why don’t those daimyos stay here?” Airik whispered back. “If they are all investors?”

Upton winced. He knew how much Airik despised the Twelve Happiness and repeated interactions with its staff increased his irritation instead of building up a tolerance. He would have to admit things could have been different if he had only known better earlier. He knew _now_. The other secretaries and personal assistants had been eager to fill him in, thus allowing him to answer Airik’s questions.

There was no help for it. The secretary sighed and said, “It turns out that the mining tier demesnes cooperatively lease a tower complex in Dome Six. Each family has a floor or a section of floor, depending on their needs and how much money they kicked in. The complex has all the services a hotel would offer, without having to be open to the public. There are guest suites for important visitors so they need associate closely only with other members of the Four Hundred and not the public at large.”

Airik thought about this. “You mean I would not have had to be subjected to the Twelve Happiness?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see,” Airik said.

He looked over to where Maerski was standing, waiting to be seated, surrounded by his staff, and then each of the other daimyos in turn, surrounded by their waiting staff. The mining tier daimyos had turned out in force for this luncheon, including plenty he had yet to meet. All the staff members were, as would be expected, well-placed relatives. They turned as one to beam at him, credit signs and desires for intimate family connections dancing in their eyes. They had the same predatory look that he had observed in the Twelve Happiness staff and hunting cats in Shelleen. Airik knew full well that prior to the discovery of the Red Mercury lode, Shelleen was considered to be a third-rate demesne at best and so beneath their notice. It was amazing how things could change, like time and pressure turning sand into sandstone.

“On the other hand, I would be continuously surrounded by the mining tier members of the Four Hundred, would I not?”

“Yes, sir.”

Airik thought of his escape to the White Elephant and how returning there to Miss Bradwell felt like coming home. “Perhaps it was for the best that you did not know.”

Upton eyed his boss with discreet concern. “Yes, sir,” he said, not knowing what else to say. He decided, on the spot, not to tell Airik that the Shelleen contingent would have been allowed to stay for free, versus paying huge sums to the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. Although, thinking on it, Shelleen would have paid in some other fashion. None of those daimyos were known for their charitable natures.

“They’ll be seating us soon,” Upton whispered to Airik. “You’ll be placed at the center table with the daimyos of Maerski, Atto, Davis, and Fuziwara along with a representative of the Panschin mine owners.”

“That’s five people. Who will the other six be?” Airik asked, dreading the answer he would get.

“The daimyos are each bringing a young lady of their family, sir. According to the stories I got, the young ladies are the ones their families currently deem as being the front-runners most likely to please you. I believe they are all new to you, having replaced everyone you’ve already met.”

“I see,” Airik said. “What do you know about the occupants of seats 10, 11, and 12?” Maybe he’d get fabulously lucky and the dean of the Mining and Engineering College of Panschin would get that last seat and they could discuss new scientific discoveries. On the other hand, the dean might push for some huge, no-strings grant from Shelleen for research purposes.

“The Panschin mine owners performed some sort of religious ritual to determine who got chosen. Steelio won. He’s got his niece, Olwyn, whom you met before, and another young lady from one of the other mining families who won the second round, a Miss Qiao,” Upton said.

“A religious ritual? To pull names out of a hat?” Airik asked, his eyebrows raised.

“My source refused to go into detail, sir, other than to say the mine owners of Panschin insisted that it be done this way.”

“I see,” Airik said, although he did not. “They all agreed and they’re honoring this ritual?” These owners were, based on his limited observations, cutthroat in their dealings with each other. Spirituality and a sense of unity did not enter into the equation at all.

“Yes, sir.”

“And they’re agreeing to the second young lady despite their own candidates from their own households?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Upton, find out as much as you can about this religious ritual. I’ve not heard of anything of this nature before.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“Oh? You’ll try?”

Upton thought of Airik sucker-punching Dean Kangjuon, gritted his teeth and said, “I don’t think Panschin residents want to discuss their rituals with outsiders. As it was, I only found out because I overheard Steelio’s secretary talking about it with one of Qiao & Schopenhour’s reps. All they would admit to me was it had to be done this way.”

“Interesting. Do the best you can.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My lord Shelleen, I am so very happy to see you’ve joined us,” the concierge said, having suddenly appeared as if from nowhere. The concierge enjoyed, as Airik had discovered to his cost, a genuine talent for not being seen when he didn’t want to be despite his gaudy, gleaming hotel livery that should have made him visible in a dense fog at midnight.

“I’ve hired some new willing young ladies who are eager to make _you_ happy.” He smirked and waggled his eyebrows at his prey.

Airik had been hoping to avoid the concierge and his insinuations. “No, absolutely not. In fact,” he added, with a burst of inspiration, “if you continue to harass me on the subject, I shall complain to Maerski, Atto, Fuziwara, and Davis. As they are investors in this establishment, I feel sure they’d be interested in how I am treated.”

The concierge frowned, then his face lit up and he smiled winningly again at Airik. “Of course, my lord Shelleen! I understand perfectly. You’re going to be examining all these worthy gentlemen’s daughters and you don’t want to embarrass any of the young ladies with extracurricular activities at this moment.”

He winked salaciously. “Mum’s the word on my part. We want you to be _happy_ here at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. I’ll check in later when we have more privacy to discuss your happiness when we provide you with _your_ happy ending. I will _make_ you be happy.” The concierge winked again and vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

Airik turned to Upton as the bowing and scraping maître D’ appeared to seat him. “We will never stay at this hotel again. Never.”

“Yes, sir,” Upton said and was led away to his own table in the outermost ring at the outer limits of the ballroom, where he was seated with some other secretaries and personal assistants. At least the gossip here would be good and Chung/Banerjee’s two secretaries who were sitting on either side of him were both remarkably pretty and remarkably friendly. He had done his best to keep the rest of the Shelleen delegation two to a table so they would never be without an ally. He wondered if Gaston or the rest of the group would even realize the hoops he had jumped through to keep them from being isolated and ganged-up on by predacious Panschin mine owners and their staffs. Gaston certainly would owe him. He had gotten Gaston placed as far away in the ballroom from Jandinaire as he could without losing status.

Gradually everyone settled into their seats, surrounding Airik, the guest of honor located at the center of the target. He felt hemmed in and on display. Maerski, Atto, Fuziwara, and Davis insisted on introducing their family’s daughters at once, making Steelio wait with his niece, Olwyn, and the other young lady, Miss Qiao. All the aristocratic young women had the same hard, assessing stare Airik had come to recognize and detest; an assessing stare that vanished if they thought he was observing them at which point the young woman did her best to appear sweet and pliant. They didn’t like each other, that was plain enough from the veiled glares and sotto-voce comments to their daimyos. How did any of them think he didn’t see this?

He also observed that Miss Steelio and Miss Qiao were ignored to the point of rudeness by the Four Hundred young women and they returned the favor although not as rudely.

Airik also couldn’t help noticing how the business attire he had expected, since this was a business luncheon in the middle of the business day, had transformed itself into low-cut cocktail wear but only for the women. All six young ladies were, in fact, giving the underdressed waitresses employed by the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel a run for their money in terms of baring all to better increase their income.

Their lavish jewelry was also impressive, a dazzling display of every kind of gem as well as a display of the money they expected to be spent upon them. He thought again of gold-diggers, although it was highly doubtful if any of the six young women had ever touched a pick or a shovel with their manicured hands. He thought of Veronica’s beads made of slag glass, worthless to everyone but her. To her, they were worth the moons.

It was uncomfortable and disconcerting. Upton, he thought wearily, would have known what to say and do, charming all around him while avoiding promises he didn’t intend to keep. The daimyos and Mr. Steelio were, as a group, hostile to each other and not much politer to each other’s candidates. That was uncomfortable too.

Airik focused on the meal in front of him instead. He realized suddenly that the heavily sauced entrée he was eating was very similar to the moss and yeast cracker he had seen Veronica nibbling on. It was a larger slab than her cracker but the odor and color were the same. Whoever had arranged for the meal – celebrating the cuisine of Panschin -- had decided upon the entrées. Was this what there was to choose from? His previous meals at the Twelve Happiness, which he had selected himself from the gaspingly overpriced regular menu, had been better. He held up the forkful of sludge in front of him, thinking hard. He must have been eating imported foodstuffs.

Shelleen had never been a powerhouse in exporting before. The demesne was self-sufficient, but generally had little grain, animal products, or minerals left over to sell to the wider world. It had been difficult to compete with the agricultural demesnes to the south who all enjoyed better climates and had better soil, as well as shorter distances to Barsoom and the great markets of the equator cities. Now that he had the Red Mercury lode’s wealth to draw on, Airik could see the possibilities opening up before him.

The lode wouldn’t last forever, but in the meantime, he could improve his storage facilities and upgrade his peasants’ equipment. He was already upgrading the in-demesne transportation capabilities for the lode, but those improvements would serve for all of the demesne’s needs. Then there was his deal with Kenyatta. It would take decades, but Shelleen’s soil would improve continuously and his peasants would gain additional expertise with livestock. With those improvements, he could position Shelleen as the premier provider of agricultural products to Panschin, and perhaps, to Northernmost as well. Conveniently, Shelleen was on the direct rail-line to Panschin, shortening the travel distances and lowering his own costs.

The markets were here. The evidence was right in front of him on his plate. Any group of people who willingly ate dough pockets filled with pond scum and moss crackers would, no question, be eager to eat something better such as the rye, barley, roots, and pulses that Shelleen grew in quantity. He could even consider growing the hardier and more shippable vegetable and fruit crops. Or, better, grow those crops, preserve them inhouse, and then ship the finished goods and reap a bigger profit than plain commodities would bring. This trip to Panschin, challenging as it had been for him personally, would be beneficial to the demesne.

“You stupid bint! That is not what I ordered.”

Airik looked up, distracted from thoughts of increasing Shelleen’s wealth for generations to come.

Kendra Atto, the current frontrunner from that demesne, had apparently been given the wrong glass. Her beautiful face was twisted in fury as she swore at the waitress. That woman was apologizing profusely, but Miss Atto was having none of it.

“Is there a problem?” Airik asked coldly.

“You bet there is, my lord Airik,” Miss Atto said sweetly. She batted her amazingly lush purple-tinted eyelashes at him, a shade he had never before observed on a human body. “This fool didn’t get my order right. I was quite specific about how I wanted my tea sweetened and she couldn’t get something so simple correct.”

“I see,” Airik said.

Since he did not instantly condemn her behavior, she took that as encouragement. “If you don’t keep the lower classes in their places, well, they try instantly to take advantage of you by doing less work. It’s a constant struggle, don’t you agree?”

Miss Atto smiled charmingly at Airik, while her peers watched carefully to see which way the wind would blow. Atto himself had a blank face as he, too, waited to see if the daimyo of Shelleen raced to the aid of a damsel in distress.

“Were you clear in your directions?” Airik asked. He thought suddenly of Veronica being gracious to drunks and her sister doing the same, despite the provocations. The waitress, not much older than Miss Atto, but with far more tired eyes, watched warily. She wore an anxious, placating smile, while behind her, the maître D’ came marching up, blood in his eye.

“Uh, yes, of course I was. I have to be when working with ignorant clods. The hotel must be hiring lazy peasants.”

“Clods are lumps of soil. Were you aware, Miss Atto, that Shelleen is an agricultural demesne? As such, my peasants, and I have many, are the hardworking backbone that supports the entire demesne. They are neither ignorant and lazy, nor are they clods.”

Miss Atto paled. “I didn’t mean,” she began.

“So you say,” Airik said.

“My lord Shelleen,” the maître D’ said. “Is there a problem with our staff?”

“Not on my part,” Airik said. “Just as I am sure no one else here at the table has an actual problem.”

“No, of course not,” Miss Atto added hastily. “I was mistaken and I do apologize for my rudeness.”

“Of course, Miss Atto,” the maître D’ replied smoothly. He caught the waitress’s eye, she moved over to him at once, they exchanged a few whispers, and she left the table looking relieved. “No harm done, then.”

As soon as the maître D’ departed, after checking personally on what everyone wanted to drink – a process that Airik noted was decidedly unclear as each person wanted something both completely different along with being extremely detailed as to size of ice cubes and amount and type of sweetener – the table burst into strained conversation on how well each person there treated their staff and workers at every level.

It should have been amusing.

It became amusing when Mr. Steelio, his niece, and Miss Qiao were able to provide specifics about their employees as opposed to vague generalities. This spurred on the Four Hundred debs to go into greater, yet less plausible detail about generous treatment of maids and other household servants. Their daimyos were not amused. Based on their expressions, Airik surmised they were each revising their candidate list of prospective brides to ones he would find more appealing.

It became more amusing when Airik asked Mr. Steelio for details about the scholarship program that the free-city of Panschin used to discover hidden talent. Steelio had no idea how Airik knew about the program and said so, but nonetheless, he seized his opportunity to talk, to have his niece talk, and to have Miss Qiao talk. Maerski, Atto, Fuziwara, and Davis sat in a fuming silence, as did the daughters of their respective households.

As they spoke, Airik observed carefully. Why had Steelio, his niece, and Miss Qiao and not someone else been chosen by a religious ritual to represent the mine-owners of Panschin? None of them had any outstanding or unusual attribute that Airik could ascertain. Miss Qiao in particular was an odd choice. She was reasonably attractive to be sure, yet he would have expected that for the twelfth seat, the mine-owners of Panschin would have selected a ravishing beauty queen -- hastily briefed on geology -- to ensnare him.

Eventually the luncheon ended, after the waitresses handed around some sort of highly seasoned, tooth-hurtingly sweet greenish pudding piled high in crystal goblets. Airik tasted it, managed to conceal his dismayed expression, and thought, ‘Shelleen will make wagonloads of money shipping anything we grow to Panschin. They’ll buy it all, even the mangelwurzels. They won’t care that they’re eating winter livestock fodder because it will be better tasting than this muck.’

*****

At the far side of the ballroom, as the only man at his table, Upton enjoyed his own luncheon very much. The company at his table was charming, eager, very friendly, and remarkably pretty, more than making up for the dismal food. He did find himself wondering if the other secretaries and personal assistants were normally this cheerful and gossipy with outsiders or had they been required to behave this way to gain inside information on what the daimyo of Shelleen wanted in a business deal. He was still coping with random moments of dizziness, making it harder to consider the possibilities of what that meant other than having to drink more of Lulu’s tea. The very best possibility was that he might finally, finally, after all this time in Panschin, get lucky. Maybe more than once, based on the smiles he kept seeing directed at him. And here the concierge of the Twelve Happiness thought he had to purchase a lady’s company. He sniffed in disdain; where was the skill or thrill in that for either party? Best of all, getting lucky wouldn’t involve signing a contract that he would have to explain later on to Airik or the senior family.

*****

The luncheon finally over, a social period was scheduled next to allow everyone who had to sit at a different table access to Airik. He had been hoping to avoid it in favor of a lecture on deep mine shaft ventilation procedures, but Gaston insisted that he attend.

“It’s necessary, sir. You’ve skipped too many other social functions and you must attend this one.”

Airik thought about this statement. Gaston had been noticeably reluctant to tell him he ‘must’ do something so the fact that he was doing so now spoke volumes.

“Very well, Gaston. Lead the way.”

“Yes, sir.” Gaston was deeply relieved. His own luncheon, despite the dreadful muck the hotel insisted on serving, had been pleasant. Why did anyone in Panschin eat this rubbish? Someone should do something about the situation although he couldn’t think of who that someone might be. He had been seated far, far away from Jandinaire. His table-mates, unlike Jandinaire’s staffers had been knowledgeable and properly courteous, allowing him to learn answers to Airik’s earlier questions. He had been steeling himself for an argument with his daimyo and to have Airik agree so easily was even more pleasant. Wherever Airik was hiding was making him much easier to work with.

“A senior member of Chung/Banerjee wanted to speak with you prior to their presentation this afternoon, sir.”

“Of course.”

The well-dressed older man who approached them looked vaguely familiar. He was wearing a floral suit, although not an ostentatious one, and Airik thought he had seen that pattern of flowers and vines before.

“I’m Peng McGrant, my lord Shelleen,” he introduced himself as soon as he got close enough, not giving Gaston a chance to do it for him. “I’m deeply honored to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Airik said, trying to place him.

Peng McGrant was also looking puzzled and then suddenly chuckled.

“This is so amusing, my lord Shelleen. You know how they say that everyone has a double somewhere in the world?”

“I’ve heard that,” Airik said. Where had he seen this man? He had met so many people since arriving in Panschin. The floral suit nagged at him.

“I was at a gallery showing in Dome Two the other day. My son Kip is a budding painter at PanU, and there was a rickshaw hauler there who looks similar to you,” Mr. McGrant said. “Not nearly as refined and distinguished as yourself of course, but the resemblance is there.”

‘Ah,’ Airik thought.

He said “I suppose that could be possible,” trusting in the unlimited capacity of people to ignore what was in standing front of them in favor of what they expected to see.

Mr. McGrant chuckled again. “It was so amusing. My dearest friend, Sajag Burgess, had a terrible run-in with the fellow and put him in his place quite firmly. I must introduce you to him. Sajag is a prominent local banker, quite highly placed in the Second National Bank of Panschin’s hierarchy. He’s a very amusing fellow and has been eager to meet with you.”

Airik stiffened. There couldn’t be two Burgesses highly placed in Second National who had argued with uppity rickshaw haulers at an art gallery show in Dome Two. His safe haven might be discovered. He’d have to leave the White Elephant and return to the Twelve Happiness. He’d have to leave Veronica.

His mind raced, looking for a way out that wouldn’t cause a problem later on. Burgess had actually spoken to him for several minutes and could possibly make the connection between a rude rickshaw hauler in Dome Two and the daimyo of Shelleen. It was unlikely, but he couldn’t count on Burgess being completely incompetent.

“Aaaaa!”

And then Airik stopped worrying about discovery.

*****

Shelby floated through her morning at PanU, oblivious to stares and whispers, buoyed by the realization that Malcolm wanted to see her again, wanted to help her and her family, and that he and his family thought she had talent.

The glow finally wore off hours later in the studio.

Kip was waiting for her, sitting at the center table and managing to sit alone and isolated in the crowd gossiping around him. As soon as she entered the room, he stood and walked up to her.

“Shelby, I’m so glad you’re okay,” Kip said. “I was worried about you.”

“I was fine. Malcolm and his family took great care of me. You look better,” Shelby said. She took a surreptitious glance around. They had drawn an audience that was ostentatiously ignoring them while hanging on every word and, very unlike him, Kip didn’t care.

“Yeah, I’m better,” Kip said. He looked down at the floor. “I suppose it was good I found out now I have surface sickness. Instead of later.”

“You’ll never have to go underground, Kip. You’re smart and talented and your family is well-off.” Shelby thought of what Florence had said, about how Kip would now be useless to his family. What a terrible thing to say about anyone. “You’ll be an artist,” she added encouragingly.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Kip said. He looked around, as if trying to decide what to say. “But you’re really all right?”

One of the other students, a hanger-on of Reyansh Philpott, promptly interrupted.

“Like you care, Kippy? You ran out on Shelby and abandoned her in the deepdown with that miner, that’s what I heard,” Bhupathi Middleton said with a smirk.

“Buzz off,” Kip said angrily.

“Yes, please do,” Shelby snapped, making more than once person sit up and pay closer attention since she didn’t normally go out of her way to attract attention. “Kip got sick. It’s not his fault.”

“I’m sorry, Shelby. I really am.” Kip finally looked up at Shelby, meeting her eyes instead of studying the floor tiles. “Would you like tea and a bun after class with me? My treat.”

Shelby blinked at him trying to figure out who this stranger was. Kip was finally giving her the attention she’d dreamed of and she no longer wanted it.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Malcolm’s coming by to meet me.” Shelby beamed at Kip. “I’m drawing his family members and I’ve got his little cousin Cindy’s portrait to finish.”

“Portraits? Of tunnel rats?” Professor Vitebskin interjected. “I suppose persons of that ilk don’t know art when they see it so you’ll be good enough for them.”

Shelby thought she’d been struck across the face. “I am not a talentless hack, Professor,” she gritted out.

“That remains to be seen,” he said. Professor Vitebskin twisted his mouth as if he’d eaten something sour. “I am happy, of course, to see that you returned alive.”

“Of course I did,” Shelby retorted. “Mr. Cobb was a perfect gentleman.”

“He’s a tunnel rat.”

“And you, Professor, are a hypocrite. I don’t need this dross and I’m going home,” Shelby said and spun on her heel and marched back towards the door she had so recently entered.

“Shelby,” Kip started to speak, started after her, and then shut up and stopped in his tracks. He stared after her, crestfallen.

“Quit wasting your time, Kip,” Professor Vitebskin said. “We need to discuss how you’ve been wasting _my_ time. What is this dreck?” and he held up Kip’s latest dismal effort.

“Hey Shelby!” Bhupathi called out.

She half-turned and hesitated so Bhupathi added “since you’re putting out for tunnel rats, why aren’t you putting out for me too? It’s not like you have any talent for anything else.”

Shelby stopped dead in her tracks while the rest of the students in the studio either looked uncomfortable or sniggered. She spun on her heel and marched straight up to Bhupathi Middleton and slapped him across his face as hard as she could. It was almost as satisfying as slapping Reyansh Philpott would have been.

The sound echoed through the suddenly silent studio.

“One more word like that from you or anyone else and I’ll ask Malcolm to break every bone in your body and throw you down a mineshaft!” Shelby screamed. “And he _will_!”

Then she marched out the door without a backward glance.

“You deserved it, you miscreant,” Professor Vitebskin said self-righteously to Bhupathi. The mark of Shelby’s hand was imprinted across his face and he sat there stunned, yet obviously expecting the professor to take his side.

Professor Vitebskin added, “Our co-eds here at PanU should be treated with respect. You need to remember that.”


	25. What happened to Upton

The luncheon was finally over (after an extremely questionable dessert) and it was time to get back to work, shadowing Airik in case he needed something. Upton arose from the table gracefully and then assisted each of the other guests in turn. He had been expecting that the ladies would manage their chairs on their own, but they did not. They _waited_ for him, smiling and batting their eyes and sending him smoldering glances. It was disconcerting.

Perhaps, he thought, this was standard behavior in Panschin, but no. A quick glance at the surrounding tables showed him that everyone else at their status level, no matter their sex or age, managed to exit a chair on their own. It was just his table.

As he assisted each of the other secretaries and personal assistants in turn to their feet, he came to the unhappy conclusion that his earlier suspicion was correct. The ladies were not friendly and charming because he, himself, was friendly and charming. It was because they had been required to do so by their bosses. Access to Upton meant possible access to his boss, the daimyo of Shelleen.

Well. He wouldn’t, he decided, let that stop him from showing anyone who wanted one a stellar time; one the woman would not just remember forever but use as the gold standard by which every future partner would be judged and found wanting. He had value too, and not just as the secretary to the daimyo of Shelleen. And here, Upton smiled to himself, certain members of the Shelleen family believed he was incapable of thinking with the head on his shoulders.

Once his duty as a gentleman was finished, courtesies reciprocated, cards exchanged, and schedules synchronized to ensure future, more intimate meetings, Upton began working his way through the mob towards the center table where Airik held court or was held hostage, depending on one’s viewpoint.

It took some time since he kept getting buttonholed by other staffers, all of whom were desperate for their own bosses to be slotted into a gap in Airik’s schedule. There were no gaps, leading to some eye-opening invitations to ensure him making a gap. Yes, sadly, it was his position and not his charming self that made him so popular. Knowing this didn’t stop Upton from making arrangements for private meetings to come but when he did so, he told the other person that seeing him in a personal way guaranteed absolutely nothing when it came to access to Airik. Some of the invitations were rescinded after Upton made his little speech, but gratifyingly, not all of them.

No one offered him a bribe in cash.

Upton had to wonder about that. If these Panschin bosses were so desperate, then why didn’t they? There was always the risk that he’d refuse and then report the incident to Airik so perhaps that was the reason. Or maybe, hmmm, his reputation had preceded him to Panschin. He never took bribes. Everyone knew that.

Upton had just about reached the inner circle of tables when he saw her, a young woman standing near Airik. Their eyes met briefly and his heart stood still and his world turned upside down. The physical reaction was so strong, he thought for a moment he had been punched in the stomach.

‘Dizziness,’ he thought shakily. ‘I’m dizzy again and I’ll have to drink more of that gods-awful damn tea of Lulu’s.’

She turned away and the connection linking their eyes was broken. Upton took a few more steps towards Airik and then she turned again and their eyes met once more.

This time, his reaction was stronger. He had to meet this beautiful goddess at once. All the other intimate arrangements he had made during the luncheon faded away. Airik was forgotten. The needs of Shelleen became a petty waste of time.

‘You,’ Upton thought. ‘You.’

Everything else vanished. He had to make his way through the mob to meet her. The other guests would part before them and he could speak to her and hear her beautiful voice, a voice that would be as lovely as she was. She would welcome him and tell him her lovely name. She would wrap her arms around him and kiss him deeply. She would whisper the most tantalizing suggestions to him and he would take her up on every one of them, thrilling her like no one else ever could. He would blanket her with kisses, not missing a single centimeter of her delectable skin. They would be happy forever, lost in a sea of endless bliss.

The other guests didn’t receive the message from the Shelleen family gods, forcing Upton to shove his way through the mob, blind to everything but his destination. His beautiful goddess smiled tentatively at him and his focus narrowed down even more.

Another wave of dizziness swept over him, he stilled, and his goddess’s smile vanished. The loss spurred Upton to ignore the dizziness threatening to overwhelm him. She was so close; only a few meters away. He could not lose her. He stepped forward cautiously, just as he did when wading through tall grass in the marshes of Shelleen while hunting, but not cautiously enough.

A Panschin favorite food was algae-filled dumplings. The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel prided itself on its larger than usual, juicier than usual dumplings and, since the luncheon’s menu had been designed to showcase Panschin’s indigenous cuisine, dumplings featured prominently. Not every guest appreciated the effort the chef had put into his feather-light dumplings, the careful seasoning, the way they burst so delightfully when bitten into, filling the mouth with a surge of carefully curated and properly aged algae from the most select tanks. The visitors from Shelleen certainly avoided them like the plague.

The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel had, as would be expected, generously overfilled the serving dishes with algae dumplings to ensure the guests could happily eat as many of them as they wanted. Since not everyone did, there were some left when the tables were cleared for dessert. A rushed waitress spilled some and then, in the hurry to get everyone served, forgot to have the cleaning staff take care of the issue.

Upton found the dumplings with his questing foot and, true to their nature, as soon as his foot pressed down on them, they burst and smeared their hot, juicy, slick innards over the parquet floor. He flailed wildly, screamed, and lost his balance, heading to the floor and unable to stop himself. He took a chair down with him while trying to regain his balance and, as he skittered down to the floor, hit the table in back of him, upending its contents on him as he fell. The table still held a large serving dish loaded with more dumplings, many of which obligingly burst when they cascaded down upon Upton and the floor. As a parting shot, the heavy ceramic serving dish hit him on the head and shattered.

Pain shot through him from a variety of points; his twisted ankle, his ribs from when he landed on the chair, breaking it and cracking at least one of them, the back of his skull where he smacked against the table, burning skin from the bursting hot dumplings, his head ringing from the heavy serving dish that crashed into it and broke into shards, the assorted little cuts from the shards, his dislocated shoulder from flailing wildly for support and missing and landing badly, and most of all, the pain of knowing he’d made a complete and utter ass of himself in front of his goddess.

As Upton lay there gasping on the floor, struggling manfully not to scream from the pain and make himself look even more ridiculous, he realized he had lost her. He didn’t know who she was and now, having seen what a clumsy oaf he was, she would walk away without a backward glance and he’d be left alone forever; laying on a ballroom floor in Panschin and festooned with blobs of algae and shattered pastry.

The dumpling caught in his hair freed itself to ooze down his forehead and burst, getting algae up his nose and smearing across his face. He sneezed violently and then couldn’t stop, making sure his humiliation was complete and letting him discover he had cracked more than one rib. The new waves of pain multiplied the stars he was seeing into a shimmering haze that filled his vision. He was having trouble hearing anything over the ringing in his ears and the roar of the aghast and amused crowd gathering around him, none of whom were being particularly helpful.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!”

Upton heard the voice and, through the haze of pain and dizziness, was able to think ‘help at last. Please don’t let it be someone from Shelleen. I’ll never hear the end of _this_ one.’

He was breathing as shallowly as he could, every breath a new adventure in pain. The shrieks from his twisted ankle, his battered skull, and dislocated shoulder paled in comparison to the bitter, stabbing complaints from his ribcage.

Someone was wiping his face clean with a wet napkin and he was able to open his eyes again to a new sea of shimmering stars. The veil parted and it was her. His goddess from across the room was kneeling next to him, wiping algae from his face.

Upton’s humiliation increased to a new level.

She said “the doctor is on his way. We’ve got a stretcher coming. I want you to breath slowly and carefully. You’ll be fine.”

She waited a moment, then frowned when he didn’t respond.

“Can you speak? Tell me who you are?”

“Yes, I’m Upton,” Upton managed to croak out.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

Her fingers went in and out of focus. “A lot?” Upton guessed. The veil kept threatening to close and he wouldn’t be able to see her again.

She frowned at him again.

“I want you wiggle your fingers for me without moving anything else. Can you do that?”

Upton stared up at her concerned, beautiful face. The sensation of being punched in the stomach was stronger than ever, now that he had the delicate scent of her perfume in his nostrils competing with the algae.

Her expression changed to a stern one. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

“For you, anything,” Upton said slowly and did as he was told.

“Good. Now wiggle your toes and tell me if you can do it.”

One foot was easy. The other foot, attached to his twisted ankle, made him gag with pain but he did it to make her happy. “I can move them.” He refused to admit that it hurt.

Airik appeared on his other side, kneeling down as well.

“My lord Shelleen,” Upton’s goddess said. “I don’t believe this man’s back is broken. Definitely a concussion.”

Airik said, “you have some medical training then, Miss Qiao?”

“Yes, I do.” She smiled reassuringly at the daimyo of Shelleen and Upton felt a surge of jealousy wash over him, strong enough to block the pain in his extremities for a few precious, welcome seconds. Why wasn’t she smiling at him? Because he was a ridiculous ass, his brain reminded him, incapable of walking across a ballroom without tripping over his own feet.

His goddess then began carefully and professionally checking his body for injuries. Her running her hands up and down his body should have been exciting. However, under the circumstances, it was anything but.

Despite the embarrassment, he couldn’t stop himself from squealing when she ran her hands across his ribs.

“Cracked rib, I think, based on how he’s breathing,” his goddess told his daimyo.

‘Talk to me, not to him,’ Upton wanted to say but he couldn’t manage the words. Despite the pain, the veil was closing.

“Coming through!” and the hotel doctor arrived with a pair of uniformed nurses, a team of orderlies, and a stretcher.

The doctor took charge, checked over Upton, and he found himself being very gently moved to the stretcher and removed from the ballroom. He didn’t know what to do. If he closed his eyes, he couldn’t see his goddess walking along at his side. If he opened them, he couldn’t help but see how every single person they passed gaped and leaned in for a better look, snickered, or burst into conversation recounting racy or derogatory Upton stories. He felt like he was hovering over his body, separate from the pain, while feeling every single jolt from being carried in the stretcher.

Unconsciousness came as a relief.

*****

Airik walked alongside Upton’s stretcher thinking hard over what he would do without a secretary. He needed someone to take dictation, type reports, manage his schedule, and run errands. Upton was invaluable. There were no good replacements among the Shelleen contingent. He didn’t dare try to hire a short-term replacement in Panschin. Doing so would ensure his refuge with Veronica in the White Elephant would be compromised. He did not, he discovered to his bemusement, want to share her presence with anyone else. More rationally, there were loyalty and confidentiality issues, along with the certainty that, during the Biennial Mining Conference, everyone who was competent was already working for someone else.

Elliot was rapidly becoming more useful as a researcher than a valet, but he couldn’t take dictation and it was doubtful he could type up a report. Nunzio would be even more useless. What would he do? He didn’t have much time to think about it.

It turned out the hotel doctor had a small infirmary, suitable for the less minor illnesses of the Twelve Happiness guests, when they could not be treated in their rooms but weren’t sick enough to be transferred to the hospital in Dome Six. He very professionally took over Upton’s care, directing his own staff in what to do, the minute they arrived.

Airik stepped back, out of the way of the scurrying nurses, to observe. To his surprise, Miss Qiao remained at his side. Was she that desperate to become the next daimyah of Shelleen, that she oozed concern for his relative?

“Miss Qiao, it’s not necessary for you to remain,” Airik said coolly.

“Oh, I know that. The doctor seems more than capable,” Miss Qiao replied absently. Her eyes were intent upon the action taking place on the bed in front of them. “The Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel would never hire anyone who wasn’t the best in their field. I, I feel concerned about the patient. He said his name was Upton? Am I correct?”

“Yes, you are.”

She chewed on her lip nervously, ignoring the daimyo of Shelleen in preference to peer around the doctor and his staff working on Upton, getting him stripped, cleaned up, cuts and bruises salved, ribs bandaged, his shoulder relocated (which roused him from unconsciousness enough to make him scream like a banshee permanently embarrassing him when he was told about it later), and taping up his twisted ankle.

“He sounded so very groggy. He was difficult to understand,” she said.

“I am not surprised. He slipped on algae dumplings and then had a heavy serving dish hit him on the head, along with everything else,” Airik said. “Your concern is appreciated. You may go now.”

Miss Qiao fluttered her hands in agitation. “I don’t like leaving a patient in a strange place. I know the hotel doctor will take the best care of Upton, but he’s in a strange place. That’s upsetting to anyone. He’ll need to have people around him that he knows.”

“You are not a familiar face to my secretary, Miss Qiao.”

She turned to glare at him. “I am aware of that, just as I am aware that Upton is not my patient.”

“Quite correct, miss,” the doctor said, from his position by the bed on which Upton reclined, unconscious again but struggling back to a groggy, painful, partially aware state. “I do know what I’m doing.”

“I know that, too, doctor,” Miss Qiao retorted. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving Upton alone.”

“As long as you stay out of the way,” the doctor said, striving for patience. “Keep to the back of the room, please.

He’d been under contract to the Twelve Happiness for years and very little surprised him anymore in how guests managed to injure themselves. Normally, however, they didn’t do it in such a public fashion unless they were drunk. In the doctor’s professional opinion, the way this Miss Qiao was acting implied that she and Upton knew each other far better than anyone around them grasped. He caught the eyes of his disapproving nurse and rolled his own in response. They’d both seen this behavior before. The families didn’t approve and it was only a matter of time before the relationship was revealed, causing pain and heartbreak all around.

“Miss Qiao,” Airik began again, trying to figure out why she was being so obstinate. Usually people who knew he was the daimyo of Shelleen (if they weren’t trying to sell him something) couldn’t acquiesce fast enough.

“Sir, my lord Shelleen, let me be the first to say how very sorry I am this happened to you,” a new voice intruded.

Airik turned and there, filling the doorway to the infirmary room and then some, was Sajag Burgess. As before, he was wearing a luridly patterned floral suit, this one demonstrating his fondness for cabbage roses. Unlike before, he also wore an oily, obsequious smile to accompany his glad-handing countenance.

“Very generous of you, particularly since I am not the person lying in agony on the bed,” Airik said dryly.

“Who are you, pray tell? Interfering in a medical procedure in an infirmary?” Miss Qiao asked sharply.

“I’m Sajag Burgess as everyone who knows anyone in Panschin would know.”

Mr. Burgess frowned mightily at Miss Qiao, taking in her plunging neckline, tightly corseted waist, bare arms, and floor-length skirt slit to her right hip, all in a vivid fuchsia with an overlay of black lace. The fuchsia contrasted beautifully with her emerald skin while the extensive exposure of skin demonstrated how perfect her complexion was, all over. Then he turned his attention back to Airik, the frown replaced with his oily smile.

“Is this prostitute bothering you, my lord Shelleen? I’ll have hotel security throw her out.”

“I am not a prostitute!” Miss Qiao gasped in outrage. “I was informed I _had_ to wear this dress, despite being invited to a business luncheon and not a cocktail party. Unlike you, who obviously chose to wear a ridiculous suit suitable only as a bedspread.”

‘Aha,’ Airik thought. ‘So that’s why the women at my table dressed as they did.’

“How dare you impugn my sartorial choices, you tart,” Mr. Burgess shot back. “I am a gentleman and I wear the latest fashions in gentlemen’s wear. This suit is straight from Barsoom.”

‘Your tailor lied and you didn’t check,’ Airik thought. ‘Another sign of your incompetence.’

“If you are going to fight in my infirmary, I’ll have hotel security throw all of you out,” the doctor said firmly. “You are disturbing my patient.”

Upton groaned from his bed.

Horrified, Miss Qiao put her hand to her mouth, once again completely focused on where Upton lay. “My deepest apologies, doctor. How is Upton?”

“Do you know who I am?” Mr. Burgess threatened.

“An idiot who is interfering with a doctor’s sworn duty to a patient,” Airik said coldly. “Have you no understanding of the situation?”

“My lord Shelleen,” Mr. Burgess said, openly and obviously hurt, with his plump hand to his breast, obscuring a cabbage rose, and tears welling in his eyes. “I am quite cognizant of the situation just as I am equally cognizant of the respect due to you. This tart, as well as this quack, are not properly respecting you.”

“I am not a tart,” Miss Qiao snapped, momentarily distracted from Upton’s fluttering eyes.

“Nor am I a quack,” the doctor said, equally insulted. To his orderly he said, “Landis, get hotel security on the double.”

“Yes, sir, doctor,” the orderly replied with a grin and disappeared behind another door. Employment at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel was never boring. Even better, fun events like this one was shaping up to be frequently led to the discreet and lucrative practice of selling lurid stories to the gossip rags and broadsheet peddlers. During his absence, the nurses and the other orderlies would be sure to get all the correct names, so they could split the proceeds afterwards.

“Mr. Burgess,” Airik said coldly. “I will be the judge of who is respectful and who is not. You sir, are not. I will demand hotel security have you removed and furthermore, I will inform my fellow members of the Four Hundred along with the Panschin mine-owners association that you are not to be allowed anywhere in my presence again.”

Mr. Burgess went ashen. “Sir, I did not mean to offend you,” he groveled.

“Miss Qiao is my guest. You may start by apologizing to her,” Airik said even more coldly.

Mr. Burgess’s complexion took on a waxy hue as the blood drained from his face. “I had no idea.”

Upton groaned again, distracting them again.

“Doctor! Upton needs you,” Miss Qiao said, fluttering her hands again in her agitation. “He’s suffering.”

“You said you had some medical training, Miss Qiao,” the doctor said calmly. “Do try to be dispassionate. It’s better for the patient.”

“May I ask, Miss Qiao, why you are so concerned over my secretary?” Airik asked.

Miss Qiao turned back to Airik, confused. “Upton is your secretary?”

“I did say so earlier.”

She reran the conversation of the last five minutes back, discovering as she did so that she hadn’t paid him much attention. “You did? Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Airik replied coolly. “Why are you so concerned?”

“Yes, why are you?” Mr. Burgess interjected into the conversation.

Both Airik and Miss Qiao glared at Mr. Burgess.

“Stay out of this,” Airik said, dismissing Mr. Burgess with a cold look.

Mr. Burgess stopped being obsequious.

“How dare you speak to me this way. You may be the daimyo of Shelleen, but I am a power in Panschin and I will make sure no one here does business with you.”

“Who are you again?” Miss Qiao asked, then turned back to Upton who appeared to be slowly waking up and regretting his return to consciousness.

“Qiao. Would that mean you are part of Qiao & Schopenhour?” Mr. Burgess asked in a silky voice.

“Yes,” she replied absently, not bothering to address Mr. Burgess to his face. “I’m a member of the family.”

Mr. Burgess smiled evilly at her back; an expression that Airik recognized at once from the gallery showing. “Second National holds your commercial paper. I think I’ll call in those loans.”

That got her undivided attention. She spun on her heel and strode up to him, jabbing her finger into a yielding cabbage rose. “You wouldn’t dare! Qiao & Schopenhour have never defaulted on any loan and so you have no reason to do such a thing.”

“I can do what I want,” Mr. Burgess replied happily. “I run the Second National Bank of Panschin.”

“All of it?” Airik asked. “I was under the impression you were one of a pack of vice-presidents, carefully placed to be out of the way so you couldn’t damage day to day business operations.”

Mr. Burgess reared back, stung and furious. “You know nothing of the power structure in Panschin. You may be a daimyo, but you’re still an ignorant yokel from the hinterlands.” He stopped suddenly; finally getting a good look at Airik in the much better lighting in the infirmary, no longer surrounded by the distractions of a crowded ballroom.

“Haven’t we met before?”

“No,” Airik replied coldly. “We have not.”

“There was this rickshaw hauler in Dome Two who tried to cheat me. You remind me of him. I’m ruining him and I’ll ruin you,” Mr. Burgess said cheerfully.

“Hotel security,” the uniformed man announced from his position at the door. “Still got your problem, doc?”

“I certainly do,” the doctor replied. “See that morbidly obese, walking cardiac arrest in the floral suit? Get rid of him. He’s disturbing my patient and his family.”

Upton obligingly groaned again from his bed, making Miss Qiao gasp and push her way to his side, taking his hand gently in her own. The Twelve Happiness nurse recognized a concerned girlfriend when she saw one so she passed over the cooling cloth for Miss Qiao to use on Upton’s fevered brow.

Airik watched her in puzzlement. She didn’t claim to know Upton from some earlier assignation, didn’t appear to know what Upton’s position was in Shelleen, and Upton himself had said they had not met when he was explaining the seating arrangements. For someone who was angling to become the next daimyah of Shelleen, Miss Qiao was paying very little attention to _him_ and paying all her attention to a stranger and a secretary at that.

The security guard took in Miss Qiao kneeling at the bedside and Airik hovering over her and dismissed them as family and so eligible to remain. He agreed with the doctor’s assessment (something that didn’t always happen) and said, “you with those curtains wrapped around you. Time to go.”

He tapped his billy club against his hand and showed his teeth like a big hunting cat, making Mr. Burgess blanch.

“Try not to resist, sir. The hotel doesn’t like it when we get the carpet bloody. The stains don’t come out.”

The rest of the security team wore the same uniform (a drab, dull red that hid stains well), enjoyed the same mountainous build, carried the same billy clubs, and sported the same predatory grins.

The decision was easy.

“I will have the lot of you fired,” Mr. Burgess sneered and slowly ambled to the door, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder at Airik and Miss Qiao as he went. He had never previously met the tart in fuchsia, but he knew her family and they would suffer. As for the daimyo of Shelleen, he looked mighty familiar. He and that damned rude, cheating rickshaw hauler could have been brothers. It was time to put more pressure on the rickshaw guild to find and punish the impertinent devil.

“Just doing our jobs,” said the unconcerned security guard. He had heard _that_ statement frequently in his career at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel and it never came to anything, despite the status of who said it. The threat of embarrassing stories, along with excruciating and detailed caricatures in the Panschin gossip columns ensured job security for him and his team and no legal actions against the hotel.

“Be happy. We are,” the security guard added with a manic grin.

Mr. Burgess stopped dead in his tracks.

“I am not happy. None of this is making me happy. Do any of you know what will make me happy? Getting every last one of you fired and sent into the Dirac mines as slave labor,” Mr. Burgess spat.

The security guard grinned even more broadly and his eyes lit up. “One more word out of you and I’m authorized to split your head open.” He and his crew held up their billy clubs, all looking eager for a fun session with a difficult guest.

Mr. Burgess knew when he was beaten. “Fine,” he said and began, very slowly, moving again towards the door while trying at the same time to figure out what was going on with the obviously drunken secretary, the tart, and the daimyo of Shelleen.

“No body fluids on my floors, please,” the doctor called out. “I get enough as it is. Keep it out in the hallway.”

“You got it, doc.”

Upton groaned again from his bed.

“Very good,” said the doctor approvingly. “He’s coming around. We’ll get some pain tea into him and keep him here overnight for observation for the concussion and his ribs. After that, we’ll see. You there, Shelleen, what is your relationship to my patient?”

“I am Airik, the daimyo of Shelleen,” Airik said. “Upton is both a cousin and my secretary. You’ll be wanting his most recent medical history as it may have some bearing on what happened.”

Airik plunged into Upton’s sinus issues since their arrival in Panschin.

Miss Qiao listened carefully, while never letting go of Upton’s hand. His sinus infection would have to be monitored since it, along with his cracked ribs, would affect his breathing and possibly lead to a more severe illness. Pneumonia and a wide variety of fungal infections were never far away in Panschin and the better ventilation in Dome Six did not change that fact. As she calmed down, she was able to think more dispassionately, just as the hotel doctor had advised.

“Doctor, could you give us a moment of privacy,” Airik said.

The doctor looked over Upton again, taking in his poor color and peeling back an eyelid to check his pupils and said, “make it quick.”

“Of course,” Airik replied. Here was someone who didn’t toady to him or try to sell him something. He wondered how long it would last.

As soon as the doctor stepped away, Airik said, “Miss Qiao. I insist on knowing why you are so concerned about my secretary. Has he, in some way, made you promises?”

“No, he has not.” She chewed on her lip, thinking on exactly what she wanted to say. It was all so strange.

“Quickly please,” Airik said. “The doctor will return and I have my own duties I must attend to.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Miss Qiao began.

“Try. I recommend you start with when you met Upton.”

“I’ve never seen him before today. I saw him walking towards me across the ballroom and, well, I…” she stopped speaking suddenly in her confusion. “I would like to stay with him but for no rational reason I can give you. I just need to.”

Airik considered her, kneeling next to Upton and how she gazed at him in fascination, gently laving his brow of the sweat beading upon it. Qiao & Schopenhour had become another research project for Elliot, to determine if there was any kind of connection between them and Shelleen, or worse, if Upton had indeed made illicit promises to Miss Qiao and she was too ashamed to admit what his secretary had done. Servant’s gossip, something that Elliot could access, might provide the answer.

His decision made, Airik said, “very well. Stay here. I will send someone by periodically to check on Upton.”

Airik then spoke to the doctor and his staff, answering the new set of questions about contacts and room numbers. Gaston awaited him in the ballroom, and it was time to return to do damage control, awkwardly socialize, and figure out who he was going to use to replace Upton.

He turned to take one last, puzzled look at Miss Qiao cooing over Upton. His secretary was gradually waking up and he couldn’t stop staring open-mouthed at Miss Qiao. Something was going on, that was clear enough. How on Mars had Upton found the time? Airik was sure he had kept his secretary continuously busy since their arrival in Panschin and a quick mental tally of each day’s schedule confirmed his belief. Who was lying to him about this relationship?

“Winifred! Get away from that lecherous cad this instant!”

The doctor turned to his nurse and whispered, “discovered. And in less than half an hour too. You win the bet.” She smiled back, quietly triumphant.

Airik whipped around to see who this was and saw an older, richly but sedately dressed man, followed by a middle-aged man, equally well dressed at the infirmary door. Neither of them wore trendy floral brocade suits, reserving their floral trim to the lapels and cuffs. They appeared to be relatives, based on facial features. He didn’t recognize either of them from any of his meetings to date in Panschin.

Miss Qiao did, based on her gasp and suddenly anxious expression.

“Zu fu, my apologies for ignoring you.” She leapt to her feet and bowed to the elderly man, then bowed again to the younger man.

“Fuqin, is there a problem?” Miss Qiao asked anxiously, her hands nervously clasped.

“Allow me, Miss Qiao,” Airik said calmly. She gaped at him in surprise, an expression he noted with interest. She didn’t appear to expect him to come to her rescue, unlike, say, Kendra Atto had during the luncheon.

“Don’t interfere with my granddaughter,” the older man said sternly. “I know who you are, sir, and I most definitely know who that blackguard in the bed is.”

“Then who are you?” Airik asked. “I’ve only recently met Miss Qiao but that does not mean I will allow anyone to badger her.”

“Winifred, make the introductions,” the older man said.

She ducked her head again, smiling nervously. “Yes, Zu fu. My lord Shelleen, this is my honored grandfather, Marmaduke Qiao. Zu fu, may I present Airik, the daimyo of Shelleen.”

She bowed again to the younger man. “My lord Shelleen, this is my honored father, Bertram Qiao.”

“Charmed,” Airik said and then he got to the point. “To my knowledge, my secretary, Upton, has never spoken to Miss Qiao prior to their meeting in the ballroom after the business luncheon. Moreover, …”

“We do not…,” the older Mr. Qiao tried to interrupt.

“You do, and you would be wise to listen so do not interrupt me again,” Airik said icily. “Sajag Burgess, who left just before you arrived, threatened Miss Qiao and by extension you, by stating he would call in your commercial loans.”

The older Mr. Qiao’s eyes widened and his glance flicked over to his son. Their attention, Airik observed, was now intently focused on him and not on Winifred Qiao. She had become unimportant. Interesting.

“He threatened me with a loss of business arrangements in Panschin,” Airik continued. “I believe Burgess to be a fool and I also believe he is of no danger to me. There are plenty of firms that want to partner with Shelleen. You may not have the luxury of ignoring him.”

“Winifred, did you have something to do with this?” the younger Mr. Qiao asked sternly.

She paled, so Airik answered for her. “She did not. Burgess attempted to bully her because he enjoys bullying young women.”

“And how do you know this piece of gossip, my lord Shelleen?” the older Mr. Qiao asked silkily.

“Via prior observation.” Airik paused while they processed this tidbit and then returned to the previous, unpleasant subject. “I am aware of my secretary’s reputation. That said, Upton had never met Miss Qiao prior to his accident in the ballroom. I have no idea what connection they have, but I _will_ find out. Do keep in mind she was chosen to sit at my table by your own religious rituals, something I, as an outsider, had nothing to do with.”

He watched the Qiaos’ expressions closely. It was readily apparent he, as an outsider, was not expected to know anything about how Miss Qiao’s name was pulled from a hat. The fact he did raised him in the older Mr. Qiao’s opinion, while flummoxing the younger Mr. Qiao with the fact that he knew at all.

Upton groaned again, but this time because he was attempting to lever himself into a sitting position.

“I’ve never met Miss Qiao,” he slurred. He slumped back onto the bed, his face gray from the effort. Miss Qiao bent over him again and he managed a dreamy smile for her. “Beautiful,” he whispered softly enough that only she could hear him.

“That roué made an assignation with every single woman from his table at the luncheon. He is a bounder and thus completely and totally unsuitable to even speak to my daughter,” the younger Mr. Qiao said firmly.

“How could he manage such a feat without annoying every woman at the table?” Airik marveled. “They were all present and listening. This seems an unlikely story.”

He thought ‘ah. Those secretaries and assistants were angling for access to me and Upton took advantage of the opportunity. That has to stop.’ He glanced over at the bed again. The doctor was checking Upton’s vital signs while the nurse prepared an unpleasantly scented medicinal tea and Miss Qiao hovered, just out of the way but obviously not wanting to leave his side despite her frowning father and grandfather.

The issue of Upton’s assignations had taken care of itself. His secretary wasn’t going anywhere and with the injuries he had sustained, he wouldn’t be able to do much frolicking with any enterprising woman who came down to the infirmary looking for him. The doctor and his staff looked to be vigilant chaperones while he remained under their care, based on their quick call to hotel security. A request to the doctor should ensure continued vigilance. Once he was released to the Shelleen suite, Upton would be attended regularly while he healed up and thus would remain unable to frolic as he chose. Airik decided he would insist on constant supervision rather than deal with such a messy issue again. Who knew what promises Upton might make?

He eyed the Qiaos, now converging upon Miss Qiao and Upton. His secretary was mumbling something unintelligible to her, her head bent over his mouth and her face rapt. Airik wanted to sigh. Wonderful. Upton was probably making promises to Miss Qiao he didn’t intend to keep, or more likely, since his speech was so slurred, what he was saying could be misconstrued into whatever the listener wanted to hear.

His decision made, Airik strode up to the elder Mr. Qiao, intercepting him on his way to his granddaughter. The younger Mr. Qiao, a dutiful son, was right behind his father and also stopped rather than walk past his elder.

“Mr. Qiao. As the daimyo of Shelleen, I will honor promises made by my secretary to your granddaughter. However,” -- Airik frowned at their suddenly gleeful faces – “I must insist on public verification along with written proof of any statements. People can say anything and often do.”

The elder Mr. Qiao bowed. “You are gracious.”

“I am a gentleman. I am also practical. I must leave and deal with Burgess making mischief to suit his own ego. What do you know of him?”

The elder Mr. Qiao exchanged glances with his son and gave him a nod, signaling that he was to speak on this matter.

“My lord Shelleen,” the younger Mr. Qiao said, bowing as he spoke. “Burgess has been a problem for many people but not, until today, for us. We are unsure why he has retained the power he has at Second National since, if he were elsewhere, he would have been sent to sift through tailings long ago. Now that he has become a potential problem for Qiao & Schopenhour, we shall look into the issue along with investigating his background.”

Airik thought of Burgess threatening Veronica Bradwell and he allowed himself a cool smile, making the younger Mr. Qiao blanch and the older Mr. Qiao nod approvingly. “Keep me posted. I have reasons of my own for wishing to see Burgess on his knees, sifting through tailings using his bare hands.”

“Of course, my lord Shelleen,” said the younger Mr. Qiao.

“We have heard of what happened to Howard Shelleen. Your great-uncle once removed, I believe?” said the elder Mr. Qiao.

“Then you know the needs of my demesne come first and I do not tolerate lying or malfeasance from anyone,” Airik replied.

“Indeed. It will be a pleasure working with Shelleen. Allies can be found in unexpected places, can they not?” said the elder Mr. Qiao.

“Yes, they can,” said the daimyo of Shelleen.


	26. in the middle of the garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (theres a bird trapped in a cage)
> 
> OR: Shelby comes home early and angry. Things quickly go from bad to worse.

Shelby was so angry she couldn’t think at all, filled with a red haze of fury, and then she couldn’t think of anything else other than what Reyansh’s friend, Bhupathi Middleton, had said to her. She stomped her way from the studio, out of the art department building and across the green and pleasant campus. This was how everyone at PanU thought of her. She’d never be anything but a tunnel chola to those worthless, wretched, entitled bastards. It didn’t matter what she did or how hard she worked.

She didn’t matter.

She stopped walking, shuddered in her relief upon reaching sanctuary, and slumped onto a bench near the edge of the PanU campus. It was her favorite bench and she had mindlessly gone to it. This bench was hidden behind a screen of small trees in planters and not readily visible from any of the walkways or buildings. She had never seen anyone else sitting here, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the campus and facing the blank, back wall of a maintenance building. It was her bench and she had sat on it far too many times fighting back hurt and angry tears.

Shelby let herself cry, again, at last, where no one would hear her. Damn them all.

A bird called overhead, then another, breaking through her misery, and she lifted her head to see if she could spot them. Veronica always liked hearing about the birds on the campus and always wanted to know when Shelby saw one and what it was doing and if it was one of the ubiquitous steppe sparrows or something more exotic. The bird fluttered down onto the gravel in front of her and chirped again at her.

It was a steppe sparrow, small and speckled brown and openly looking for a handout. All the birds on the PanU campus knew the students were easy marks for crumbs and this one, almost too fat to fly, was no exception.

“I’ve got nothing for you,” Shelby said softly. The bird hopped closer to her, eyeing her with anticipation. It had eyes like shiny jet beads, rimmed in white. Veronica had once owned strings of jet beads, but they hadn’t been as vibrant as the sparrow’s eyes.

“I’ve got nothing for anyone,” she said. She wiped her eyes, stinging from her salty tears.

The sparrow jumped up and down and chirped eagerly.

“You aren’t listening,” she scolded the sparrow. “I’ve got nothing. I am nothing.”

The bird hopped closer, almost close enough so that she could reach over to touch it. It chirped again, more demandingly.

“Fine. I’ll show you,” Shelby said and began rooting around in her pockets. The bird took it as a signal that food was coming and fluttered up to the far end of the bench. To her surprise, Shelby turned up a cracker, still wrapped in a twist of paper. She had forgotten it. Malcolm had bought her supper the evening before in the metro station and she hadn’t eaten this last cracker with her soup. She hadn’t wanted to throw it away and had wrapped it up in a bit of scrap paper salvaged from her pocket, afraid he would say something about her cheapness.

He had smiled instead and said, “I can’t waste food either. I’ve been hungry more than once.”

He had gone on to tell her more about the Steelio warren and how different it was from the fancy private school he attended during the week. There, he had routinely seen the other students take what they then refused to eat; fancy treats he had never seen in the warren. When he could, he discreetly salvaged unwanted treats to bring home to his family in the warren. Mr. Steelio made sure his people ate, but sometimes, there wasn’t quite enough to feed people who did hard, physical labor all day, every day. Some days, you wanted more and you went to bed hungry.

She looked at the cracker in her hand for a long moment and unwrapped it, the bird hopping up and down in its eagerness for a treat. Her eye caught her bag, holding her sketchbook and pencils, including the new pencils that Veronica had bought her when she had made the deal to trade Shelby’s sketches for Mrs. Grisson’s eggs.

Malcolm Cobb had never given up. He wasn’t giving up now. He hadn’t let anyone else define him. He was, so he said, going to help them with Mr. Burgess and keep them from being thrown out. Why, Shelby wondered, was she giving up so easily? She had talent. Her family knew it and said so. Florence had Shelby’s sketch of her boyfriend pinned to her wall where she could see it every morning when she woke up and every evening when she went to bed. Lulu, who could be relied on to tell you the truth (especially if it was unpleasant), had one of Shelby’s flower drawings in a similar location. Mrs. Grisson loved her portraits of her grandchildren. Malcolm’s family had loved her sketches of their kids.

Why was she listening to people who deliberately made ugly art? To Professor Vitebskin who couldn’t draw at all and so relied on a junior professor he openly disdained to teach the students the skill?

Why was she listening to anyone who belittled her? Yes, her father was Simon Bradwell. Yes, he had cheated just about anyone he could. But she wasn’t him. If she could see the difference between herself and her father, then other people could too. They might not, because they were idiots or they were deliberately being cruel; it didn’t matter. She wasn’t her father. She didn’t have to let his actions define her.

She wasn’t a tunnel chola either. Anyone who knew her at all knew Shelby wasn’t that kind of a girl. She didn’t chase after boys, like half of her classmates did. She didn’t put out. She’d barely been kissed and anyone who knew her, knew that. People told lies but she didn’t have to listen to them and act like what they said was the truth.

The sparrow chirped at her, rapid and sharp, demanding her attention. Shelby tilted her head and watched it while it watched her. The sparrow didn’t care who she was. If she fed it the cracker, it would eat the crumbs gratefully. If she didn’t, it would flutter off uncaring and look for someone else. It didn’t define itself by what she did or said or who she was related to.

“You know who you are, don’t you,” she said thoughtfully. “Have a cracker.”

She carefully unwrapped the now-broken cracker, finished crumbling it, and scattered the crumbs on the gravel in front of her. The bird hopped down and she got out her sketchpad and began drawing the sparrow, eating the crumbs left from her supper with Malcolm.

Focusing on the sparrow at her feet, joined within minutes by another sparrow, then a third, let Shelby calm down. She let the birds flow from her eyes, down her arm to her hand and out through her pencil and onto the page of blank paper. They looked so funny, squabbling with each other over a crumb when a larger one was ignored. The blank pages filled themselves with chattering sparrows, bright-eyed and eager, and joyful to be alive and eating crumbs from the metro café.

The crumbs gone, the sparrows hopped up and down, cheeping at her.

“I’ve got nothing left for you,” Shelby said.

The sparrows waited expectantly and then, while she sat there unmoving, decided she really didn’t have any more crackers and fluttered off.

She looked over her drawings of the sparrows. They looked alive on the pages, bright and inquisitive. Why didn’t she trust what she saw on the page? Why did she listen to people who hated her? They didn’t know her and they didn’t want to know her. All they could see was the daughter of Simon Bradwell, a talentless hack and a slut, a gold-digger who deserved everything she got until she erased her father’s crimes with her own blood and tears.

They didn’t see her, anymore than they saw Malcolm. Professor Vitebskin saw Malcolm at the gallery showing and thought he was a banker but when he saw him again in his Steelio coverall, that image went away. He couldn’t see the complexity of the man standing in front of him. He could only see the image in his own head. Malcolm did understand her, just as he said he did. He experienced the same things every day.

Shelby studied her sparrows again, filling the pages with lively movement. Veronica would like seeing them. She didn’t often come to the PanU campus anymore to watch the sparrows. Veronica, Shelby suddenly realized, rarely left Dome Two and when she did, she only went to a few places; the places she had to go to where she knew how she would be treated. And she rarely went alone. When she was inside Dome Two, it wasn’t just to have help dragging the wagon of produce to the Dappled Yak or the leftover radishes to the Broken Pickaxe. It wasn’t just to have someone along to talk to. It was so she, Veronica, wouldn’t be alone when facing down someone who saw Simon Bradwell’s older daughter; a daughter who should have known her father was cheating the citizens of Panschin.

Her sister struggled every day too. But she didn’t give up. She kept moving forward, slowly and painfully, but she kept moving.

“All right then” Shelby said to the air around her. “All right then. I won’t give up either.”

That left the problem of what she would do next. PanU wasn’t working for her and it didn’t look like it ever would. Auntie Neza had an appointment with the bursar to see if she could transfer her paid tuition to PCC. If Neza was able to persuade the bursar, she wouldn’t have to keep struggling in a place that hated her.

There was the scary concept of going underground into the PCC campus, but that wasn’t as frightening as it had been. Lulu and Florence and hundreds of other students went underground into the below-grade classrooms every day and now, she could too. She’d been underground with Malcolm and been safe. Nothing bad happened when you went underground, at least not if you didn’t suffer from surface sickness and she didn’t.

Shelby spared a thought for Kip. Poor Kip. He couldn’t go underground ever again. Lucky for him he had a family wealthy enough that he wouldn’t have to. It was hard to believe the McGrant family would, as Florence insisted, ostracize him for something he couldn’t help. She thought then of the rest of the Bradwell family, the relatives who had turned their backs on her and Veronica. Only Neza had stood up for them. Poor Kip. She could hope, for his sake, that the McGrant family wasn’t like her Bradwell relatives.

She had people who loved her. Shelby stood up and stretched and packed away her drawing supplies. It was early, hours before Malcolm had said he would come by. She’d leave a note for him, pinned to the bulletin board where messages were traded back and forth among the student body, along with another note for Florence and Lulu so they didn’t worry and could stay late to study. Then she’d go home to her sister and her aunt. They were her family, they accepted her, and they valued her. They saw her as she was and they loved her. She loved them too and it was time she told them that.

*****

“You’re home early,” Veronica said suspiciously. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Shelby said. “Really fine. Nothing bad, I promise.”

Her sister studied her with some concern from where she crouched, working over another bed of tiny lettuces, breaking up the clumps of terraformers and working them under the soil.

“Uh huh,” Veronica said. “I know how that place treats you.”

Shelby sighed gustily. “The day was fine until the end. But I think I learned something anyway.”

“And what would that be?” Veronica asked. She rocked back on her heels, watching her little sister. Shelby had dried tear tracks on her face but she didn’t look as distraught as Veronica had come to expect after a crying jag.

“I want to go to PCC. I really do.” Shelby stopped, dropped her bag, and crouched down by her sister and began opening her bag.

“Look at my sparrows,” she said, holding out a page full of chirping birds squabbling over crumbs. Aren’t they good?”

Veronica stared at them and smiled, her face lighting up with joy. “It’s like they’re alive.”

“I’m really good, Veronica. I can draw.”

“Yep, just like we’ve been telling you.”

“I think I know that now. I can draw people and animals and flowers and that means I can find work as a commercial artist once I’ve gotten some better training at PCC. PanU is just a waste of time and money. I’ll never learn to be an artist _there_.”

Veronica sat back. “That’s new from you. So you’ve changed your opinion on fine art?”

Shelby laughed. “Not fine art, no. I think I can get there, someday, if I work hard. Avant-garde art, yes. Normal people don’t like it and for good reason. It’s ugly.”

“Well,” Veronica said. “I guess PanU was worth it after all.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Shelby retorted.

“I would,” Veronica replied. “You had to learn for yourself and, I think, you would have always wondered what you would have gotten from PanU’s art department. Now you know.”

“Now I know.” Shelby turned the page of her sketchbook to another drawing, this one of a fat squirrel she had sketched earlier in the week. “Isn’t he cute? He’ll sell a magazine.”

Veronica smiled at the squirrel. “He sure is. He looks alive, grooming his tail. Look at those cunning little paws.”

“I did learn a lot at PanU from Professor Vitebskin, though. I learned how to handle paint really well. I just won’t use it the way he wants me to, to paint dirt.” Shelby stopped and smiled hesitantly at her sister.

“I have some paintings, other paintings. You’ve never seen them. But I think they’re good.”

“You mean like the cloud painting you promised to Jeffen in the Steelio warren? The one you’ve never shown any of us?”

“Yes. I want to show you them today. When Florence and Lulu get home. I’ll show you all of them.”

Veronica could feel her heart lifting after her dreadful morning. “We would love that. Neza’s inside making tea. Shall we join her?”

“Oh, absolutely. I want to tell her how much I want to go to PCC. I’m going to be as good as Clyde Monez.”

Veronica chuckled. “Better. You’ll be better than Clyde Monez.”

*****

Shelby showed off her drawings of steppe sparrows to Auntie Neza and then, began leafing through her sketchpad to show off other drawings, talking about them in a way she never had before.

Veronica marveled at her little sister. She was proud of her drawings. She was showing them off. She normally never wanted anyone to see what she had done. Maybe Malcolm Cobb was good for her. Shelby was willing to listen to him when she hadn’t listened to her family. Her little sister fancied him. He seemed to feel the same way about her. Veronica thought of Dean and how wrong she had been trusting him. She said a little prayer that Malcolm be the man Shelby believed him to be and that he wasn’t just using her sister.

The gate shrieked its warning, startling the three women.

“Would that be Mr. Jones coming back?” Shelby asked.

“I don’t think so,” Veronica said, worried and anxious all over again. Her hand went automatically to her beads. “You stay here while I check. It might be a lawyer for the McGrant family or something from Mr. Burgess at the bank.”

“Don’t go borrowing trouble, Veronica,” Neza said, striving for calm. “It’s probably nothing.”

Veronica leaped to her feet with a determined expression. “You stay here, auntie Neza, with Shelby. If I don’t come back in a few minutes, run out the back door to Mrs. Grisson’s.”

“Veronica,” Shelby said. “What on Mars?”

“Go, Veronica,” Neza said, her expression tight and controlled. She started massaging her hands. “I’ll tell Shelby what happened.”

“Something happened?” Shelby asked, suddenly aware that she might not have been the only member of the White Elephant household who had endured a difficult morning.

“Yep,” Veronica called over her shoulder as she ran to the kitchen door and out into the hallway towards the atrium. “It sure did.”

*****

Veronica stopped at the heavy double door leading to the front garden. She didn’t want to open it. She didn’t even want to look through the pink glass panes. What if there was a team of lawyers from the McGrant family looking to sue them over Kip’s surface sickness? She knew from bitter experience that it was unlikely; lawsuits took time and not enough time had passed for the initial filing. Court cases were cruelly drawn-out affairs, sanding off skin and then muscle, a layer at a time, until the bloody bones underneath were eventually revealed. She leaned her hands against the door, breathing hard. Whoever was on the other side of the door, coming up the gravel walkway, would just have to wait.

What she was really afraid of, and fretting over the McGrant family lawyers kept her from thinking about it, was Mr. Burgess. It probably wouldn’t be him. It would be some lower-level bank employee -- someone from Dome Six to ensure the local branch staff could not warn her -- armed with a stack of documents and the sheriff at his side to evict them from the White Elephant.

She couldn’t comply. She couldn’t leave her home. The White Elephant was her sanctuary, her haven, where she kept her and her little family fed and safe.

She steeled herself, wanting to vomit and forcing the bile down, and waited for the heavy knock on the door of someone demanding entrance. But no knock came. She waited and waited and heard nothing. She could feel the sweat beading on her forehead and trickling down her back. Dean’s visit, which would have become assault, had upset her even more than she’d realized.

More minutes ticked by and then Veronica forced herself to unbolt the front door and swing it wide to whatever awaited on the other side.

The gravel pathway before her was empty. There was no one there. The front garden was empty. There was no package, no message, nothing. She was alone.

Veronica stared out, confused and upset and wondering if she had gone insane. Had she heard the gate shriek its warning? Yes, she had because so had auntie Neza.

The kitchen. Neza and Shelby were in the kitchen. Veronica pushed the door closed hurriedly, not bothering to shut it firmly or bolt it in her rush, and ran headlong back to the kitchen. The kitchen had a back door. Maybe it was Mrs. Grisson come to visit, she told herself, wanting it to be true because who else could it be? Mrs. Grisson always used the back door and she kept an irregular schedule.

*****

But as she neared the kitchen, the house was silent. Neza and Shelby must have, while she was agonizing over opening the front door, already left for Mrs. Grisson’s house and she would have to chase after them. Yet, wouldn’t she have heard cheerful voices if it was Mrs. Grisson come to call? Veronica pushed open the kitchen’s swinging door and saw why the room was silent.

Dean was standing there, his face livid with bruises, old and new, and he was not alone. Next to him, grinning at her, was the thug with the shaved head who had come to the door previously wanting the White Elephant, the one who had then come to the gallery showing and told her again his boss wanted her home and she had to leave. He had dumped his jacket on the floor and the shirt he wore underneath, its sleeves rolled up, demonstrated he was made of heavy muscle. His biceps looked like boulders.

Worse, he had another man with him, also openly enjoying the reek of fear. Other than normal hair, this man could have been the thug’s twin, equally large and brutal-looking; he was not the boss Shelby had sketched from Elliot’s description. He was someone new.

Shelby sat hunched over at the table, openly terrified and with a fresh bruise beginning to bloom across her beautiful face where someone had hit her. Neza was slumped at the table in the chair next to her, unmoving except for her hands, rubbing each other over and over.

“Hey, Ronnie,” Dean said. “You should have listened to me. It would have been better for both of us.” His voice was raspy, like he had been yelling.

“That’s not my name,” Veronica said automatically. She stepped back towards the doorway, her mind blank except for one thing. Dean knew the thug who had come to the door. How could that be possible?

“Sound’s like a good name to me,” the first thug said. “I like it, specially since you don’t, you uppity bitch.”

“You run,” the second thug said, “and I’ll hit your luscious sister again. There’s other things I’d like to do to your sister, and you too.” He grinned suddenly, showing off front teeth that had been filed into points.

Veronica stopped dead in her tracks.

“I won’t run,” she said. She was having trouble breathing and her ears were full of the sound of her pounding pulse. Airik Jones wasn’t here to save her from Dean this time. He wouldn’t return with his bodyguard for hours.

“Good girl,” the filed-teeth thug said. “Follow orders and you’ll be okay.” The first thug shot him a poisonous glare and he clamped his mouth shut.

“Ronnie, you have got to sign the papers for the house over to me,” Dean said. He looked miserable. “Please, Ronnie, for all our sakes.”

“Dean, I can’t do that,” Veronica said slowly. Her eyes were very wide.

“Ronnie! You’re still arguing with me? What the hellation is wrong with you,” Dean sputtered. “Do you have any understanding of what these two gentlemen and their boss will do to me if you don’t sign?”

“Nothing good, I’m sure,” Veronica said, swallowing fresh bile.

“It won’t be,” the first thug said and he grinned at her again, licking his lips. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

“But Dean, I can’t,” Veronica said slowly. “The lease isn’t in my name.”

Dean paled, showing his bruises more strongly. His complexion had always been perfect, a rich upper-class emerald, and Veronica suddenly realized why his skin had been so even in his last visits compared to now. He had been covering bruises with cosmetics. Too many of the bruises she saw had mellowed and darkened; they weren’t new.

“What?”

“Dean, this is auntie Neza’s house. I thought you knew that.”

“But I thought she signed it over to you when we got married,” Dean protested. “For us and our children.”

“No, Dean, she didn’t. She was going to but she never got around to it. It wasn’t like we were in a hurry. We had all the time in the world.”

Veronica glanced sideways at the thugs who were watching her and Dean closely and listening carefully. If she could explain things, she might be able to save her sister and her aunt, or at least delay long enough for someone to show up. Right at that moment, she realized how grateful she would be if Mr. Burgess showed up with the sheriff, followed by a team of lawyers armed with lawsuits filed by the McGrant family. However distasteful, those people were rational and wouldn’t physically harm her or her sister and aunt.

“That isn’t what you told us, Dean boy,” the first thug said. He was apparently the leader of the pair, at least here and now. “That isn’t what you told my boss. Remember him?”

Dean cringed. He remembered.

Veronica spared a moment to wonder if the mysterious real boss was somewhere in the White Elephant measuring for new carpets and drapes and had to stifle terrified giggles at the thought.

“What happened, Dean, is …” Veronica said, trying for calm.

“Tell me,” the first thug interrupted her. “Not that worthless, sodding little ponce.”

“My apologies,” Veronica said, trying for a placating smile. “My father, Simon Bradwell, got into trouble. He was a thief, a swindler, an embezzler.”

“Got that part. Dean told us.”

She couldn’t think. She couldn’t think at all, only answer mechanically.

“When everything started falling apart and my father’s schemes were discovered, auntie Neza decided not to sign over the White Elephant to me.”

“I didn’t know that,” Dean said.

“Shut up,” the first thug said to Dean and punched him lightly in the ribs, making Dean suck in his breath and cringe back, as though he’d been hit there before.

“I was afraid we’d lose the White Elephant,” Neza said hoarsely, startling Veronica, Dean, and both thugs. “When the lawsuits started flying, I knew if I kept the house in my name, it would be safe. I wasn’t involved in your father’s schemes. My family name is different.” She never once looked up from the table, keeping her eyes firmly on her reflection in the polished bamboo surface.

“It’s true,” Veronica said. Dean must have forgotten or maybe she never told him. Too many awful things had happened back then, piling on one on top of another, like an avalanche that never quite stopped spilling down rocks.

“Dean,” Neza said. “I could sign the lease over to you right now, but you’re not a relative anymore. The local branch will have questions. You know they will. So will all the neighbors.”

“You don’t talk to that worthless ponce, either,” the thug said sharply.

“My deepest apologies. I won’t forget again,” Neza said and returned her eyes to her hands, twisting around themselves on the shining table.

“Dean told us the local bank is run by some hack who spends all his time arranging his pencils. Nobody there cares,” the thug said with a smirk. “We got Dean to cover for us if they do.”

Veronica thought ‘Dean, you don’t know about Malcolm Cobb. You don’t know about Mr. Burgess threatening to evict us all. The bank hates surprises. No matter what you say, someone will show up and figure out what you did. You think Lulu won’t ask questions when she gets home? _They’ll_ figure out you set them up to fail. Dean, you are an _idiot_.’

“Dean, why did you do this?” The question burst out and she wanted to bite her tongue off when she saw the first thug’s face darken with fury.

“Please, forgive my rudeness,” Veronica added hastily to him. _He_ was in charge and she didn’t dare forget that fact.

Dean looked down at the stone flags at his feet, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Cause he owes us money, that’s why,” the first thug said silkily. “Can’t pay his gambling debts and so he offered us your fine, fine house.”

Veronica stared at Dean in shocked horror.

“You _gambled_? You idiot!” she screamed. “After what my father did? He ruined us and you went gambling? Were you insane?” A dim part of her brain kept telling her to shut up but she couldn’t stop.

“Your father was the one who introduced me to the casinos!” Dean yelled back. “It’s his damn fault I’m in this fix. If I hadn’t married you, I would never be in this fix! It’s your fault!”

“It is not! You could have said no!”

“You said you’d never speak to me again! Yet here you are, screaming at me!”

“Screaming isn’t speaking and I wouldn’t be screaming at you now, except you _forced_ me to, you idiot, by being such a _complete and_ _ **utter**_ _**FOOL**_!”

“Enough!” the first thug roared and leaped to his feet. “Fun as it is to watch exes fight, I got business to attend to.”

“Please, forgive me, sir,” Veronica said. She struggled to breathe. “Gambling is a sore spot for me. My father …”

“I don’t care.”

“Of course, sir,” Veronica said, trying hard for another apologetic smile. She spared a glance at Dean. He was sweating visibly and shaking. He knew these people. He had brought them to the White Elephant. The realization struck her like another blow. He must have been hiding this thug, his partner with the filed teeth, and their boss in his flat in Dome Six. Dean was the reason for the threats. Dean was why the thug and his partner and his boss hadn’t been found. Dean, her former husband, had managed to betray her again.

It was like her father all over again. Dean only thought of himself, just as Simon Bradwell had. No one else mattered. And gambling! Dean of all people knew how her father’s chronic gambling had collapsed his house of cards. He couldn’t pay those debts and so he kept swindling his clients to pay his losses until he could no longer cover his tracks.

The first thug stood up and swaggered over to where Veronica stood, by the door that led to the rest of the house and escape. He towered over her, dominating the kitchen.

“You’re being polite to me now,” he said.

Veronica didn’t know what to say so she said nothing, other than smiling weakly at him.

“Learned some manners at last, I guess.”

He touched her face, gently running his fingers down her cheek.

“You’re smarter than your ex. He never deserved you. Sold you out as soon as he could.”

She wanted to scream and run. She couldn’t do anything but stand there, his hand stroking her face, and pray he didn’t hurt her as the filed-teeth goon had already hurt Shelby. Her sister sat still as a statue, other than tears leaking down her cheeks and radiating fear. Neza didn’t look any better and neither one could fight off two thugs like these under even the best of circumstances. He was so close she could smell his sour breath and see the play of muscles in his thick, bare forearms. He could break her in half and not work up a sweat.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Veronica said tightly. “We were happy, once.” She couldn’t stop a tear sliding down her cheek, where he had run his fingers across her face, the gesture of a lover. The skin on his fingers were rough with work and his nails were dirty, edged with something the color of dried blood. “Dean loved me.”

“Not anymore. Dean is stupid and he don’t learn. He didn’t know when he was well off. But it looks like you might.”

“Thank you,” Veronica managed.

She had to think. She could never overpower either of these men physically. She didn’t think she could take on Dean who was sporting, from the way he was moving so stiffly, more injuries than could be accounted for by Airik Jones throwing him over a low wall. These two thugs must have been beating Dean from the way he acted and sounded. She didn’t feel a particle of sympathy for his plight.

Then she realized something else. No matter what this thug or his partner said to her about cooperating and being safe, he was lying. She, her sister, and auntie Neza were witnesses. This man wouldn’t take the risk of them talking to anyone.

“Would you like some tea? I could make you some tea for you and your companion,” Veronica said, while thinking she had lost her mind from fear.

“You do learn. I like it when you’re nice to me,” the first thug said, moving closer to her, leaning over her, his face almost touching hers. “Your ex, he was never good enough for you.”

He watched her face, enjoying her fear and knowing she knew who was in charge.

Veronica thought she would faint onto the floor. She forced herself to remain upright through sheer will, and then he stepped back a pace, like a cat playing with a mouse, offering hope when there was none and there never would be.

“No. I don’t want your tea. I want your house,” the thug said coldly. His face had gone stony again.

That still didn’t make any sense to her. Why would he want a house? The White Elephant was immaculate, that was true, but it would be possible to bring any of the ruined mansions in Dome Two up to the same standards with hard work. Dean could sign a lease for them and no one would ever know who really controlled the building. The thug and his boss had to have a place already where gambling took place, since Dean found them and lost his money. Perhaps they needed a better place than what they occupied at the moment, but Dean Kangjuon had the social connections to arrange whatever they wanted in Dome Two. He could have arranged whatever they wanted in any of the domes.

What did they really want from her and Shelby?

She wanted to scream at the thought that sprang to mind and bit down on her tongue until blood came and filled her mouth with copper.

But if they wanted to rape her or Shelby, no one would be standing around in the kitchen of the White Elephant.

What could they want?

It felt like time was slowing down. She was being given a gift, a chance to think. Dean gambled with them. Dean owed them money. They wanted money. It made no sense they wanted the White Elephant. She had no money.

However, dear old dad had once had mountains of money. No one had ever discovered where all the money Simon Bradwell stole had gone to. The gambling dens he frequented had been investigated and, according to their sketchy records, he hadn’t lost all that money at their tables. There was plenty that was unaccounted for. Dean knew the story. Everyone in Panschin knew.

“I found dad’s money, at least some of it,” Veronica blurted out. Dear Gods below, let Dean not figure out she was lying.

“You found some of the money he stole?” Dean snarled. “You let me think you had nothing. You lying bitch!”

The first thug strode back across the kitchen and smacked Dean in his chest, and he crumpled to the flagstone floor. He made wet, sickening sounds.

The thug glared down at him. “Shut up.”

Dean went silent, curled into a ball of agony on the floor.

The thug took the few steps back to Veronica, frozen by the door.

“Tell me. I heard all about your dad; he stole more money than an army of bank robbers could have done.”

“You are quite correct,” Veronica said. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely hear him. “He did.”

“Then why you living like this? Letting those ugly pictures in your house for money?”

“I just found it a few days ago. I had to decide what to do. The courts, the police, I wouldn’t be able to keep it,” she answered. “I wanted to keep it.”

“Then where is it? Your ex, he said this place had nothing in it of value other than you and your luscious sister.” The thug leaned over her again, his face so close to hers she could count the pores on his nose and see how close his mouth was to hers.

She stared at him, her eyes wide with terror. Would he believe her? “In the tunnels, underneath the second subbasement.”

The thug straightened up and watched her carefully for a few minutes, minutes that slowly, slowly ticked by, each instant ratcheting up her fear. He wouldn’t believe her. He would hurt her. He would hurt Shelby. He would hurt Neza.

Then he marched back to Dean and roughly pulled him back to his feet.

“You were in those tunnels, Dean. You said there was nothing there. They were empty. Are you still lying to me?”

Dean stared up at him, his face contorted with fear and fury. How had she ever thought him the handsomest man she had ever met?

“There was nothing! You think I’d have been gambling in your place if I had found Simon Bradwell’s stash? I’d still be welcome in the decent places.”

“I found it by accident, Dean,” Veronica said quickly to forestall the thug hitting Dean again and then going on to hit someone else in his rage. “I slipped and knocked into the wall and a piece of stone fell down and there was this little niche. That’s where it is.”

The thug studied her coolly. “How much?”

“I don’t know. A bag of coin. It was heavy.”

He marched back up to her, putting his face up against hers.

“And you left it there? You expect me to believe that?”

She stared up at his hard, icy blue eyes. “If I brought up the money, I’d have to share it with my sister and my aunt. I want out of Panschin, more than anything. If I told anyone, the court might find out and seize it for restitutions.”

He didn’t say anything so she continued. “If I didn’t tell anyone, I could disappear. Leave Panschin forever.” There it was; a truth she had never admitted to anyone, and barely admitted to herself. She wanted to escape Panschin and go where no one knew her, or her past as Simon Bradwell’s daughter.

He smiled abruptly. “That makes sense. This place is a hellhole.”

“I know the tunnels,” Dean said quickly. “I’ll go down with Veronica and bring back the money.”

The filed-teeth thug who had been sitting quietly, his hand rubbing on Shelby’s thigh, snorted openly and said “You’d bash your ex’s skull in and do a runner with the coin.”

The first thug turned back to Dean, his face angry again. “If I want you to talk, I’ll tell you to talk. You are not going down into those tunnels. You are going to stay here and get the old lady to sign those papers over to you. I am going down into the tunnel with my partner and your ex-wife.” He stopped and looked over across at Shelby, making herself as small as she could. “And her. She’s coming with us too.”

Shelby sucked in her breath audibly and more tears trickled down her cheeks but she stayed silent. She pleaded with her sister with her eyes. She would, she knew, never fret over what someone said to her again. This was real. Words hurt, but not like fists. She knew that _now_. Worse, she had a very good idea _now_ how much more the two goons could hurt her. They would enjoy it too. The goon with the filed teeth kept rubbing his hand on her thigh and across her breasts, sending her a message that couldn’t be plainer.

“You. Old lady,” the first thug said. “You don’t sign those papers for this house over to Dean, your nieces don’t stay healthy for long. Got me?”

Neza lifted her head to him and said clearly and precisely, “I understand perfectly.” She did not look at Veronica or Shelby and then returned her eyes to her hands, twisting around themselves.


	27. Underneath the White Elephant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warning for this one. def some threatened stuff. doesnt go anywhere tho so read at your own warning

 The thug put his hand under Veronica’s chin and lifted her face up to him like a lover demanding a kiss. He leaned into her and said, his mouth almost on hers, “behave, or you, your sister, and your aunt will suffer. Got me?”

Veronica stared up into his ice blue eyes. They held all the warmth of chips of glass. She wanted to tear herself away from his touch and she could see he wanted her to pull away, to scream, to shake, to give him the excuse he wanted to hurt her in front of her aunt and her sister to ensure they didn’t fight back. In front of Dean to humiliate him even further, making sure he didn’t dare disobey.

“Yes, I understand,” she choked out. She caught the flash of disappointment in his eyes and prayed he would do as he said.

“You are worth a dozen of that spineless worm you married,” he said and smiled at her without any humor.

“It was the right thing to do at the time,” she replied, refusing to look away and repressing a shudder so he didn’t know how frightened she was. “I loved Dean.”

“You made a mistake.”

“Yes, but not then,” Veronica said. She audibly swallowed bile, knowing she spoke the truth, just as this terrifying man was speaking truth to her now.

“I always appreciate bravery and loyalty, even when it’s wasted on worms like Dean,” he answered.

He let go of her chin and she wanted to cringe back into the doorway, letting the wall support her. Instead she stood and waited, sweat trickling down her back. He watched her for a long, long moment before speaking.

“Take us down to the tunnel to your dad’s money. No tricks or you’ll never stop paying.”

“No tricks,” Veronica agreed.

She watched him turn away back to the table where Shelby sat shivering, her face tight with anguish, the filed-teeth goon stroking her hair and whispering something to her while she tried not to cringe, Neza rubbing her hands together but otherwise still, and Dean standing hunched over nearby, his arms wrapped around his chest and his face stricken and ashamed. Veronica caught his eye and he looked away rather than face her.

Veronica swallowed hard, again, as the filed-teeth thug ran his hand over Shelby’s breasts, making her little sister cry harder, yet remaining as silent and unmoving as possible.

“However,” she said, striving to sound even-tempered and calm, “I must insist you tell your partner to keep his hands off my sister.”

The first thug spun around on his heel and marched back up to Veronica. She stepped back, her back against the door jamb, and waited in agony for him to strike her.

He leaned over her again, closer than ever, almost touching her body with his own, brutally muscular one. “You insist?”

“I’m afraid I must.” She wanted to faint and never wake up.

He stared down at her and she could feel her knees weaken and she gave mental thanks to the door jamb for holding her up.

Then he grinned suddenly. “Fine.”

He spun back around and stepped away from Veronica. She could feel herself sag in relief.

“Charlie, hands off. For now. Get the sister and let’s go,” the thug commanded. “Dean, you get that paper signed or I’ll beat you again. You think I hurt you? I haven’t even got started.”

Dean cringed again and Veronica wondered again what had happened to the man she had fallen in love with. Was she such a dreadful judge of character that she had not seen his underlying weakness? Or had he never been tested like this and found wanting? It didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping herself, her sister, and her aunt alive as best she could. Dean Kangjuon no longer mattered in the least. Neither did the White Elephant. They could have the house if it meant safety.

She watched Shelby stumble to her feet and shamble over to her, her shoulders hunched to avoid a blow or more unwanted hands from the thug with filed teeth, despite being told not to. How long would that last? His name was Charlie. She’d have to remember so she could tell the police later on.

Veronica led the way, followed by the first thug. She could feel his eyes boring into her back with every step and she kept waiting for him to say something vile, or worse, hit her, but he remained silent and kept his hands to himself. So did his partner. That let her hear her sister gasping for air while she swallowed frightened tears, walking between the two men. She still didn’t know the first thug’s name. What would she tell the police if they asked?

As they progressed, single file, from the kitchen and down the hallway, then down the center staircase leading from the atrium to the first subbasement and then the second, Veronica wondered if she should ask. It was unlikely they would escape, but she clung to the hope that they would and she would be able to tell the police everything they needed to find and arrest the thugs and Dean.

Her hand kept straying to her necklace of cloudy, gray beads. Airik Jones had said they were ultimately made of star stuff, like everything in the solar system. What would he say when he returned to the White Elephant in the evening and discovered her former husband had betrayed her again and she was dead? She didn’t believe he would walk away without a backward glance. Nor would Malcolm Cobb, when he didn’t find Shelby and had to listen to whatever lies Dean told him. Dean was a fool to think he could get away with this insane scheme and even more of a fool to think that he wouldn’t pay and pay and pay when the two thugs understood what he had done to them.

And they would. So would their boss, wherever he was. They weren’t from Panschin so Dean had been able to fool them about how things were done in the city, but they would learn fast. Not telling them about Malcolm Cobb and Airik Jones would be the only revenge she could have.

She wondered too if she would ever find out why they wanted the White Elephant so much when houses in Dome Two went begging. It made no sense at all.

It felt like it took forever to descend the multiple stairs down to the second subbasement and lead the way to the hatch to the tunnels below, tucked into the far corner of the farthest room from the sunlit stairwell, the room that only had a single, dim light shaft to illuminate it. It was enough light to see by, but no more.

Still worse than realizing how she had misjudged Dean was realizing how she had misunderstood the gravity of the thug coming to the door. She had believed Mr. Burgess was the real threat. She simply hadn’t been able to believe that anyone would want the White Elephant so badly. She had been wrong and because she had been so wrong, she had imperiled her little family, all of them. Florence and Lulu would come home and find Dean and the thugs. Would they be able to escape with their lives? Or would their bodies join her, Shelby, and Neza in the tunnels below?

It didn’t bear thinking about, yet Veronica could not stop herself. She still hadn’t figured out what to do. They would reach the tunnels and the unnamed thug would discover she had lied to him about finding a cache of Simon Bradwell’s money. He would hurt her worse than he was undoubtedly planning on.

The hatch lay in the floor before her and she stopped in front of it. The last time she had gone below was with Dean, when they had been happy in the White Elephant, and had explored every single level and room, and had then gone onto exploring the tunnels below. The thug wouldn’t know that. He wouldn’t know the reason why the room didn’t look abandoned. The floor was swept clean and the lanterns on the otherwise empty shelves dusted, because if they didn’t dust thoroughly, and sweep walls, ceilings, and floors weekly, even this dim, second subbasement room would be carpeted with terraformers in short order.

Veronica didn’t think it was common for mansions in Dome Two to be connected to the underlying network of tunnels that laced through the bedrock underlying Panschin like the White Elephant was. She and Dean had explored the empty, echoing dark maze many times and had never found where any of the tunnels eventually led to, nor did they seem to lead to hatches in the subbasements of the surrounding mansions. The maze of tunnels twisted around like roots of plants, apparently following seams of some mineral or other, dug out when Panschin was newly founded and the earliest settlers were still figuring out how to survive in the frozen northern wastelands of Mars. The maze had levels, one below the next, on down and down, connected by narrow shafts with the ladders still in place. The tunnels seemed to go on forever, empty of everything except darkness and time. Some sections were very narrow forcing them to squeeze through; others had ceilings so low, they had walked bent over.

There was some ventilation, left over from long ago, but never enough to keep the tunnels from being both stifling and chilly. They had never been able to discover any lighting below, as was used in the active mining tunnels now.

Eventually, the novelty wore off and they stopped exploring the maze. Although, Veronica thought, trying to remember, Dean had continued after she got bored with stumbling around in the endless dark night of the maze underneath Panschin. She hadn’t always been willing or available so he went without her. It had been far more fun for her to explore every street and alley, every park and grotto and cul-de-sac in Dome Two. There had been very little to see underground other than dead rock. One passageway looked much like the other. Sometimes there were cryptic markings in chalk on the walls, but neither she nor Dean had been able to decipher the exact meaning of those markings. They guessed and sometimes they guessed right or so she thought.

“This is it,” Veronica said. “We light the lanterns, open the hatch, and then we climb down the ladder and go down again into the tunnels.”

The thug studied the hatch set into the floor. It was a square of scuffed bamboo, about a meter across, with a large iron ring set in at one end.

“Lift it up,” he said.

She darted a glance at him. “I’ll have to move around as I do so. It’s heavy for me.”

Veronica knelt down and began tugging on the iron ring with both hands. The hatch was heavier than she remembered and she had to wrench it upwards just enough to slide a waiting shim in place, left over from long ago explorations. Once she had worked the shim in place, she repositioned herself to pull up the hatch from the other side. The thug silently watched her heaving it slowly up, then said, “get out of the way. I’ll do it.”

He lifted the hatch as easily as Veronica had once lifted the lid on her jewelry box, long since sold along with all its beautiful, shining contents. The opening beneath was black, the light from the flickering lanterns and the light shaft barely penetrating. The only thing that could be clearly seen was the top rungs of the ladder, set in the side of the hatch, descending down into darkness.

It had always been awkward for Veronica to swing over the side of the hatch and lower her body down into the depths. She steeled herself.

“This is how you have to go down the ladder. I’ll climb down first, and then Shelby.”

He grinned at her, his teeth flashing in the lantern light.

“Oh no. You will go down, then I will go down, and then Shelby will go down and then my partner will go down. So’s you two can’t run off in the tunnels.”

“As you wish,” Veronica said placatingly. “Although we wouldn’t get far without lanterns. It’s terrifying.”

He moved right up against her. “Worse than me?”

She stared up at his eyes, colorless in the dim light, hearing her blood pound in her ears. “You and the tunnels are both terrifying,” she said at last. She caught a flash of satisfaction in his eyes.

She turned away and stared down into the depths. What was she going to do? Why had she so stupidly lied about finding a cache of dear old dad’s money? There was nothing she could do now other than to swing herself down the ladder and climb down so she did, rung by rung, feeling her way down the ladder carefully into the darkness. Dean had always gone first, clutching a lantern, so when she climbed down, it was with a lighted destination waiting for her.

It took longer than she remembered to reach the bottom, but at last, her questing foot found solid ground and not another rung downwards. She stepped back away from the ladder with relief despite being surrounded by darkness like she never experienced in the Dome, even in the depths of winter. She wiped her hands clean on her coverall, trying not to shudder at the gritty sludge caking her skin. There had been clumps of dead terraformers clinging to the rungs all the way down.

“I made it,” Veronica called upwards, into the lighted square far above her. She could make out the shadowy outline of the head of the thug looking down at her. Would he close the hatch and leave her to die below? There was that risk.

“Took you long enough,” the thug called down. “I didn’t know it was that far down.”

“Yes, these are old, old mining tunnels,” Veronica called back up. “They have to be dug much deeper so there’s enough rock between them and the weight of the house. If tunnels are too close to a building, the building could collapse into the tunnels.”

Her voice echoed up the shaft. She waited, hoping to hear something. Then, as she stared upwards, she could dimly see the thug swing his big body over the edge and feel for a rung downwards. Once he went down a few rungs, his partner leaned over and handed him one of the two lit lanterns. The light was startlingly bright, illuminating the rough walls of the shaft and the old, old bamboo ladder. The walls were patchy with discolored clumps of dead terraformers, slimy to touch and disgusting to rub up against. The thug had broad shoulders, ensuring he had a tighter fit going down than Dean ever had.

“I’m coming down,” he called. “You better be waiting for me or your sister will suffer.”

“I will not move from this spot,” Veronica called back up. “Shelby? It will be fine. I’m waiting for you.”

“Okay,” her sister called down. Her voice was shaky and rough.

The thug climbed down slowly. Veronica noticed that he seemed awkward on the ladder. A tiny spark of hope sprang up. He didn’t seem comfortable in the shaft. Maybe she could use that.

As he climbed down closer to her, clutching the lantern awkwardly in one hand, she could see his hesitation. The lantern’s movements threw wild, frightening shadows in the shaft and onto the ground below. He grunted in disgust more than once and she thought he might have found a patch of dead terraformers when he bumped into an outcropping of rock or felt them ooze under his hands. The bamboo ladder creaked alarmingly under his weight. He didn’t have much room to move around in the shaft, not nearly as much as she or Dean had.

“You’re almost there,” she called out encouragingly. “Just a few more rungs and you’ll be back on solid ground.”

He stepped finally onto the ground, feeling for it cautiously first and then eagerly. The thug stepped away from the ladder and held his lantern up high. The flame in the lantern didn’t do much to light up the small, natural cave, but it was very bright to Veronica’s eyes and she had to blink and turn away to let her eyes readjust after the almost total darkness.

He turned around and around, very slowly, trying to understand what he was seeing. The small, natural cavern they stood in had multiple openings in the walls, all of them black holes into oblivion. The lantern light didn’t reach into any of them to reveal what they contained. The ceiling of the cavern was rough and irregular, spiked with stalactites. The floor they stood on was uneven bedrock, studded with toe-catching lumps. The walls of the cavern were likewise uneven, but lacked the terraformers that lined the shaft leading to the hatch. The cavern walls were silent, dead rock, the color of shadows and eons of time.

Veronica waited quietly, watching for how he reacted.

At last he spoke. “Where’s the money.”

Veronica thought quickly, remembering the paths she and Dean had taken. She caught sight of one of the cryptic chalk markings and the clumsy one Dean had drawn next to it, long ago, a rough map indicating the territory they had explored. She knew what it meant but it looked similar to the older, stranger mark.

“We have to go down the left passageway and then take a turn down a side passageway. It’s not far after that.”

He stared down into the black opening she pointed towards.

“Will there be light from the hatch?”

“No, not at all. We’ll need the light from the lanterns.”

“Charlie,” he called up. “Wait there. Hands off the sister. For now.”

“You, Ronnie,” he said to her.

“That’s not my name,” she answered automatically and winced. “Forgive me.” She thought fast. “What is your name, if I may? I would like to know what I may call you.”

He stepped right up to her again, forcing her to retreat a few steps until the wall stopped her. It was cool and damp, the moisture seeping instantly into the back of her coverall and chilling her. She stepped forward enough to not feel it behind her even though it meant she stood closer to him.

“You can call me sweetheart.”

“Um,” Veronica said, not knowing what to say at all as she stared at his implacable face. “That seems so informal, seeing as we barely know each other.”

“That’s gonna change,” he replied and grinned at her again. “I been thinking. I don’t know why I need Dean when I got you. Your aunt don’t need to sign any papers. You want to keep her safe? Your sister safe? Then you do what I tell you. You tell those bank people what they want to hear. You tell the neighbors what they need to know. You tell that professor with the ugly pictures he’s not coming back. We’ll all be happy.”

Despite his brutish appearance, he wasn’t stupid, Veronica realized. She’d have to be cautious.

“I don’t know that ‘happy’ is the word I would choose,” she said carefully.

“You’ll change your mind. I’ll take better care of you than Dean ever did.”

“I will keep your gracious offer in mind,” Veronica said in her most non-committal, bland voice; the one she used when dealing with process-servers, bill collectors, and when testifying in court.

“You do that.” He stopped to watch her face in the shifting lantern light.

“Your sister is gorgeous, but you, Ronnie, you got backbone. You got fire and nerve.”

“Thank you. You’re very generous,” Veronica managed. Her mouth was so dry it was hard to speak. She caught a flash in his eyes. He was enjoying himself. He was toying with her, playing with her, leading her on so she might hope. If she was forced to agree and work for him to keep her aunt and sister safe, she’d never stop paying.

He turned away from her and called up the shaft “Charlie. Send the sister down.”

“Shelby, it will be fine,” Veronica called up. “Go slow and you’ll be safe. Feel for each rung and you’ll be fine. If you feel something under your hands, it’s just dead terraformers. It’s a long way down but I’m waiting right here for you.”

“You weren’t that careful with me, Ronnie,” the thug said.

She would _not_ call him sweetheart but she could tell him the honest truth. “Shelby is afraid of the tunnels and she never likes going underground, even into our own basements or the metro to use the transtubes. I do not believe you are afraid of anything.”

He smirked, his teeth flashing in the lantern light. “You got that right.”

Veronica chose not contradict him but he did not look comfortable, standing in the tiny pool of light surrounded by thick night. She had seen him now twice before today, spoken with him each time, but this time, here at the bottom of the ladder shaft in the cavern, he looked afraid.

Then, to her horror, he draped his free arm around her, yanking her closer to his heavily muscled body. She went very still, not daring to pull away and noticed the faintest of tremors in his heavy arm, wrapped around her. He had not bothered to put on his jacket before coming down into the tunnels and she had not thought to say anything about how it would be noticeably colder. Was he cold? Or was he afraid? She wasn’t going to run her hands over his arms to check for goosebumps.

She waited quietly, pressed against his bulk, and watched Shelby slowly descend the ladder, audibly gasping and panting for air. Her sister was terrified, even as she moved further away with each step from the filed-teeth thug who had hit her.

***** 

Shelby took each rung of the ladder downward, hesitating and sweating despite the cold. Going down meant darkness and the tunnels, with Malcolm nowhere near her to help. There was no one anywhere near to hear her scream and come running to rescue her as he had told her on the freight elevator going down to the Steelio warren. How long ago that seemed now. Going back up meant Charlie; leering at her, and, despite what his partner had told him, touching her and whispering the most vile suggestions to her. She could tell Veronica, who would believe her at once. The thug, waiting at the bottom, was unlikely to listen to her when all Charlie had to do was claim she lied.

What was happening to Veronica, down there at the bottom of the shaft? When she looked down, she saw shadows and then she saw the thug pull her sister up against himself. He wasn’t yelling and Veronica wasn’t screaming or fighting, so that was something.

Most of all, Shelby couldn’t think of why Veronica wouldn’t have said something at once about finding some of dear old dad’s money, hidden in the tunnels. And when had she found the time to look? Her sister, Shelby concluded, must have gone crazy with the stress to do such a thing. Or, maybe, she thought more critically to distract herself from the rickety ladder that creaked under her weight, Veronica had remembered an incident from before, a reason she would have gone into the tunnels without Dean to explore further. If dear old dad had hidden a bag of coin where it would never be found but would still be accessible, where he could reach it without anyone knowing, under the White Elephant would be the place. Simon Bradwell visited sometimes, before everything happened, but everyone in Panschin knew he thought Dome Two was a decaying ruin that needed to have every building within it torn down and rebuilt. He had said so often enough. Dome Six was the only place to be.

Each rung downward was a chore, the sensation of each cautious foot feeling for the next rung was frightening, but there was no choice. She tried to place her hands where Veronica had been, where the thug had been, so the rungs were clear of terraformers oozing between her fingers. Shelby prayed that Veronica knew what she was doing because she herself couldn’t think of anything other than running and screaming in hysterical panic. It took all her focus to breathe and move quietly and do exactly as she was told.

***** 

Was the thug afraid? It was a possibility. Veronica let herself shiver against him. It was effortless to shake and release some fear.

“Afraid?” he breathed into her ear; his breath warm against her neck.

He asked an easy question and she had a truthful, disarming answer.

“It’s dark, it’s cold, you’re warm, and yes, I’m afraid,” she admitted.

She waited in the darkness, feeling him breathe against her. He must have been cold; it was surprising he wasn’t shivering since he was only wearing a thin shirt with rolled-up sleeves. His breathing was more rapid than she would have thought it would be from the exercise of climbing down the ladder.

“It is always this cold?”

“Yes, always. It gets colder for quite a ways down.” Veronica stopped to think. “I’ve heard that in the true deepdown, the tunnels get warmer and warmer, until the miners are working almost naked in the heat.”

He took that in.

“How the hell could that happen?”

“It never made sense to me but I believe it’s the heat generated by the core of Mars. I would have thought the tunnels would have to go many hundreds of klicks further down and yet, apparently they don’t have to.”

“You’re smart. I like that.”

She had to keep him talking. She might learn something useful about him.

“Thank you. Dean didn’t always like my being smarter than he was.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she winced again.

“You think I’m stupid?” he asked, his voice irritated. “Cause I don’t know that shit?”

“No, no, of course not,” Veronica replied as calmly as she could. “But you’re not from Panschin and because we’re a mining city, even those of us who have nothing to do with the mines learn a few facts about how they operate.”

She very deliberately pushed against him ever so slightly closer, enough to seem normal in the chilly air but not enough to seem suspicious. “If I left Panschin and went somewhere else, I wouldn’t know anything about how things are done. For example, I’ve only seen the sky a few times. I stared and stared. There were clouds and they moved like they were alive.”

He thought about that. “The domes.”

“Yes, the domes. They alter everything.”

“Veronica?” Shelby asked in a quavering voice. “Am I close?”

“Yes, Shelby, yes you are,” Veronica said. “Almost there. Just a few more rungs.”

Shelby descended the last few rungs, panting audibly, and when her feet touched the ground, she sagged against the ladder and whimpered in her fear.

“I would like to go to my sister and reassure her,” Veronica said.

“Sure. Why not,” the thug answered.

He let go of her and she immediately trotted over to Shelby, saying as she went, “here I come. I’m going to put my arms around you while you get ahold of yourself. Can you do that?”

Shelby, Veronica noted, was frightened enough to not snap back at her for sounding like a mother managing a fretting toddler.

Shelby clung to her and shook for a few minutes. As she held her sister, with her hands concealed from the thug, Veronica slid the wires of her earbobs out of her ears and tucked them into her hip pocket. She could use them to leave a trail for whoever came down the ladder, looking for their bodies.

“That’s enough,” the thug announced. “Get out of the way so my partner can come down. Charlie! Come down now. You two, over here right next to me.”

“Of course,” Veronica said. To Shelby she said, “stay with me and do as we’re told.” She knew the thug heard her so she didn’t dare say anything else to her sister.

She took Shelby’s trembling hand and forced herself to walk closer to the thug, one step after the other. The concept of escaping down the tunnel struck her, but they would be lost instantly inside the maze without lanterns. Shelby would panic and scream in the dark and they’d be easily found.

Veronica stopped walking. They’d be easily found because the thug and his partner had lanterns and they did not.

“I’m waiting.”

“My apologies,” Veronica said. “Shelby still has the shakes from climbing down the ladder.” It was true.

“I don’t care.”

Another few steps and they were there, next to him. Veronica put her arm around Shelby and said, “we’ll stop here.”

“All right,” her sister whispered.

The thug put his arm around her again, pulling her close to him, and Shelby went too. He was shaking, ever so slightly. Veronica realized he was cold, but he was also afraid. He was working hard to not show fear. It was obvious he would never admit it, but standing beneath dozens of meters of cold, dead rock in almost total darkness and eerie silence was eating at him.

They waited in silence, watching as Charlie slowly descended the ladder. It creaked and groaned under his weight, louder than it had under anyone else. The sound echoed up and down the shaft ominously. Veronica didn’t know how old the ladder was; it had to date back to the days when the tunnel had been dug out and before the White Elephant had been built.

Should she say something? It was better to sound helpful, she decided.

“I think the ladder will have to be replaced eventually,” she said quietly.

The thug went still and his arm tightened across her chest.

“You think we can’t get back up again? Dean didn’t say nothing about that.”

“Oh, no. I’m sure it will last for many more years,” Veronica said hastily. “But it’s like everything in Panschin. It has to be repaired or replaced eventually.”

“But not yet.”

“No, we’ll be fine,” she said soothingly.

“Charlie!” the thug called up. “Quit fooling around and get down here.”

“I don’t like this,” Charlie called down.

“You’ll like what I do to you even less if you don’t quit wasting my time,” the thug returned sharply.

‘So,’ Veronica thought. ‘Charlie doesn’t like the shaft. He won’t like the tunnels either.’

She felt her sister shift against her, staring around them at the rough walls of the small cavern and into the twisting, shifting shadows. The thug held his lantern up steadily, but Charlie’s lantern swung with each rung downward, making shadows dance and reveal, then conceal the uneven rock walls. The constantly moving light made the floor of the cavern look rougher than what it was. Veronica knew how uneven the ground was, with unexpected knobs of rock waiting for unwary toes and worse, sudden low spots that jarred the teeth when you found one. There was even in one of the passageways, not too far from where they stood, a shaft going down to another level. It would be easy to fall down the shaft, missing the ladder to one side, and landing on the bedrock far below, a heap of broken bones and torn flesh.

She remembered during previous explorations with Dean that strange noises would sometimes echo up and down the tunnels and shafts. They had never discovered where they came from or if they were on some schedule. If they heard a noise, it would be frightening to the thug and his partner. She fretted over saying something because strange creaking sounds would also terrify Shelby.

“Veronica?” Shelby asked, her voice quavering. She pushed up harder against her sister, making the thug tighten his arm around Veronica.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Shelby,” Veronica said. “The tunnels are safe, as long as you’re careful.”

“I’m the one you should worry about,” the thug growled. “Not the tunnels. Nothing alive down here, that’s what Dean said.”

“Veronica?” Shelby said again, her voice even more uncertain. “I think I see a cave-viper?” Her voice rose up and she began to whimper.

“ _What_?” the thug said in alarm.

“Shelby,” Veronica snapped. “There is no such thing as cave-vipers. I’ve spent plenty of time in these tunnels and never seen anything like that. They are not real.”

“But Veronica,” Shelby said and then squealed, pushing against the thug in her panic.

“Shelby! Get a hold of yourself,” Veronica hissed.

“What the fuck are cave-vipers,” the thug said, his voice angry. He was breathing harder. Up above, Charlie had stopped on the ladder. He clung to it, holding his lantern more steadily and listening. He was breathing so loudly, he was almost panting.

“Cave-vipers are a story people in Panschin tell their kids to keep them out of the tunnels,” Veronica said in her most soothing voice. “Shelby knows this. Don’t you, Shelby?”

“I know it’s supposed to be a story,” Shelby squeaked, “but I saw something _move_.”

“Shelby, you saw the shadows move. That’s all it was. When Charlie gets to the ground, his lantern will stop swinging around and you’ll see. I promise.”

“What are cave-vipers supposed to be?” the thug asked. “Dean didn’t say nothing about them.” His breathing had quickened again, becoming irregular and loud in the dark stillness.

“A kind of snake,” Veronica said. “I’ve seen pictures of snakes but we don’t have any in Panschin. They’re long and thin, like stuffed stockings would be. They crawl on the ground but I’m not sure how they move since they don’t have legs.”

“I know what a snake is,” the thug snarled.

“I don’t,” Veronica said matter-of-factly. “I’ve never seen a real one, only pictures in books. Nobody I know has ever seen one, except people who’ve been to Barsoom, I suppose. They might have. Are there snakes in Barsoom?”

“Why the hell do you think I’m from Barsoom?”

“I don’t. Barsoom is the only free-city on Mars where there might be snakes. They certainly won’t have them in Northernmost. It’s even colder than Panschin, being up at the pole. I’m told they have everything in Barsoom so if there are snakes on Mars, that’s where they would be. Do people keep them as pets?”

She could feel his puzzlement at her inane babbling.

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” he answered finally. “Dean said there was nothing alive in the tunnels.”

“Well,” Veronica began slowly. “Dean wasn’t quite correct about that.”

“What. Do. You. Mean.”

“There are terraformers. That dead moss you felt on the ladder and lining the shaft. When there’s any regular light at all, it comes roaring back to life and grows as long as there’s light. Then it goes dormant, and eventually dies if the light doesn’t come back. The spores are everywhere in Panschin, even in the deepdown. When Dean and I came down all the time to explore, we experimented with leaving lit lanterns to see how fast they would grow.”

“Dean didn’t say nothing about that.”

“I’m sorry. They freshen the air. They’re mostly harmless.”

“ _Mostly_ harmless?”

“We have a lot of fungal diseases in Panschin,” Veronica replied in her blandest voice. “You seem very healthy so I’m sure you won’t have any problems. Most people don’t.”

“Our mother died of a fungal infection,” Shelby added in a very small voice.

“Yes, sometimes people do,” Veronica said. “Please, Shelby, now is not the time to discuss mama’s death.”

“I’m breathing these spores?”

“Since the moment the train pulled into the station, even before you got off it,” Veronica said. “They are everywhere.”

“This place is a hellhole, and I want the two of you to shut up about cave-vipers and terraformers,” the thug said.

“Yes, of course,” Veronica said. She gave her sister a warning squeeze.

“Charlie, get down here now.”

Charlie swore and cursed from his perch, then began climbing down much faster than he had before. The ladder creaked with every step, making him swear under his breath. Veronica watched in silence, with Shelby shivering next to her. ‘So,’ she thought. ‘Charlie is more afraid of the thug than the tunnel and probably with very good reason.’

Charlie finally neared the bottom of the ladder and whined, “how close am I?” He refused to look down.

“You’re not helping him out,” the thug said, his voice almost bored again.

“Because he doesn’t matter to me, but you and my sister do,” Veronica returned in her most expressionless voice.

“So I matter?”

“You know you do,” Veronica said. She couldn’t see his face but she thought, from the way he shifted his weight against her, that he was pleased.

Once Charlie had joined them, the thug said, “I want the money. Now.”

“We go down this tunnel a ways and then turn,” Veronica said. “It’s past the light from the shaft” – she heard Charlie suck in his breath – “and the floor of the tunnel is uneven so be careful.” She stopped and twisted inside his circling arm so she could see the thug’s face, watching her.

“May I have the lantern?”

“No.”

“You’ll have to hold it high then, so I can see.”

“You just lead the way to that money. I’ll hold your hand so’s you won’t be scared.”

‘You don’t care if I’m scared. You think I might run,’ Veronica thought. She said, “How thoughtful of you. Thank you. I would like to hold Shelby’s hand as well, so she doesn’t get scared.”

“No. Your sister gets to walk behind me. Charlie will bring up the rear.”

“As long as he keeps his hands to himself,” Veronica said testily. “If Charlie grabs at her, she’ll panic and someone will fall. There is a downwards shaft nearby and I don’t want her or you to fall into it.”

He stared down at her for a long, long moment. He was, Veronica was beginning to understand, pleased when she stood up for herself but only when it benefited him. The moment he didn’t derive some gain, or she was too assertive to amuse him, he would punish her. He wanted her to push back, so he’d feel fully justified when he beat her.

Cave-vipers would be less dangerous.

“Let’s get started down the tunnel, then. Shall we?” She smiled as graciously as she could and when he nodded his assent, Veronica started toward the inky tunnel leading down into the endless night and hoped, with every step, she could think of something she could do to save herself and her sister. Mr. Burgess would be easy to manage after this, assuming she survived to speak with him.

As she stepped into the opening, she palmed her earbobs and let them fall to the ground, hoping they wouldn’t be noticed in the shifting lantern light. They landed on the stone underfoot, one after the other, with tiny, echoing pings.

Shelby, as Veronica prayed she would, squealed and cried “what was that?”

“Yeah, what was that noise,” the thug snarled. His hand tightened on Veronica’s, squeezing her fingers painfully.

“It’s nothing,” Veronica said calmly. “The tunnels make noises sometimes. Sound carries a long, long way. Dean and I would hear odd sounds but we never, ever saw anything.”

“Then let’s go. I want my money,” the thug said.

She turned and smiled at him reassuringly. “Of course.”


	28. Other Doings While Veronica is Trapped Underground

Airik grimly made his way back to the ballroom at the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. He had to find a substitute for Upton right away; he needed Elliot to research Qiao & Schopenhour and to figure out, via servants’ gossip, what connection existed between his secretary and Miss Qiao; he had to anticipate what arrangements Qiao & Schopenhour would claim Upton agreed to; and, worst of all, he still had to socialize in the ballroom with a pack of greedy, grasping strangers. Every one of those guests had witnessed Upton’s accident and would be gossiping avidly about it. His fall was spectacular enough to make the social columns all the way to Barsoom, complete with wild speculation about Upton’s drunken habits, a detailed rehash of his skirt-chasing lifestyle (including naming names), and hints about exposure to Red Mercury causing insanity in the Shelleen family.

It was going to be a challenge to steer conversations back to safety equipment.

And there was Mr. Burgess to consider. The younger Mr. Qiao had made a fascinating statement, demanding careful thought. How did Burgess retain his power? He appeared to be a badly dressed buffoon, yet buffoons did not stay employed in any kind of position of authority no matter how powerful their families were.

Hmm. He could add Burgess to Elliot’s list of research tasks.

He should, Airik knew, have someone else from the Shelleen delegation doing this work, but he didn’t want to reveal any connection to the White Elephant. It had become a refuge in Panschin, a free-city he was rapidly coming to dislike. He did not want to examine why it felt like going home when he saw Veronica Bradwell. And there lay the other, bigger reason. The Shelleen family would have plenty to say to him about associating with the daughter of such a notorious embezzler and scoundrel. Gaston would insist he sever all ties rather than affect Shelleen’s own business dealings and he would be correct. The senior members of the family would fully back Gaston on that point. Despite any questions or concerns Elliot might harbor on the subject, he would not reveal them. His valet knew his place.

Airik steeled himself and plunged into the whirl of people in the Twelve Happiness ballroom.

*****

Malcolm Cobb read through document after document in the second subbasement under the branch office of the Second National Bank of Panschin. The evidence was damning when examined en masse and in order as opposed to how the documents had been processed, each separate and unrelated from its fellows. Burgess was either the most incompetent buffoon the bank had on staff – unlikely but possible – or he was utterly corrupt; a far more likely possibility. Yet Malcolm couldn’t reveal what he found. Burgess had taken great care to implicate his fellow senior officers in the bank. Burgess had ensured that if he fell from power, he’d take all his peers along with him to the Dirac mines.

Anything Malcolm revealed would have to be done with the utmost care so _he_ did not end up being punished for airing the bank’s dirty laundry. And worse, the reports indicated Burgess and Simon Bradwell had worked with other banks whose senior executives also would not want their dirty laundry aired out for the free-city residents to see. And sue over.

It was galling. Every name he read in the myriad of documents belonged to an executive or family who were already wealthy and powerful, yet what they had wasn’t enough. They wanted more. If he brought this situation to light and public attention, _he_ would be the one to suffer, along with his entire family and Shelby and her little family. Not them. It was grotesquely unfair.

Seeing the record of corruption made Malcolm want, more than ever, to climb to the very top of the ladder at Second National. He wanted to become the president of the bank, along with chairman of the board. With each step up the corporate ladder, he could better clean house. He might not be able to prosecute anyone currently within Second National’s corporate structure, but he could do his best to make sure there was closer and more rigorous oversight in the future.

But he couldn’t do that if he didn’t solve this problem first.

There had to be another way, besides sending anonymous copies of files to the newspapers and the Martian government. Both those options would take far too long and could be ignored by the recipients. Plenty of open and obvious malfeasance already had been. Malcolm had to wonder how much money had changed hands as sumptuous gifts, luxurious travel junkets, lavish entertainments, and well-paid sinecures for friends and relatives. There wouldn’t have been anything so clumsy as an out and out bribe.

He thought of Mr. Wong, no doubt rearranging his pencils three floors above him, in his once grand office with the huge windows overlooking the park. Mr. Wong had detailed knowledge of what was hidden in these filing cabinets; he had known exactly where to guide Malcolm’s own explorations.

Yet he had done nothing with the information. Why was that? The answer was obvious. He knew exactly how risky it was and he did not choose to risk himself, or worse, his family.

But he would let Malcolm Cobb lay his neck on the line. Yes, indeed he would.

Malcolm could suddenly see how subtle a mind Desmond Wong had. He couldn’t fail, no matter what happened.

If Malcolm was prosecuted by higher-ups in Second National for the temerity of revealing all this corruption, then his own, well-detached hands remained clean. Malcolm Cobb was obviously just another uppity scholarship boy who didn’t know how things were done; a tunnel rat who deserved everything he got.

If Malcolm succeeded, then Mr. Wong could enjoy watching his enemy, Mr. Burgess, be punished while his own hands remained clean. In addition, Mr. Wong might well have other enemies in Second National who would be put on notice. Hmm. Now that was an interesting line of speculation. Exactly why had Mr. Wong been sent to rot in Dome Two? What was his family background? Malcolm leaned against another filing cabinet, thinking hard. He knew nothing about Desmond Wong. That had to change.

He straightened up and stretched, working out the kinks in his shoulders. Desmond Wong would become another research project, but one that would have to wait until after he had rescued Shelby from Burgess.

Malcolm sighed gustily. He had no idea where to start.

Another thought struck him. He turned around slowly, taking in the ranks and ranks of filing cabinets filling this room in the second subbasement under the main branch office. There were other rooms in the basement catacombs, each filled with row upon row of filing cabinets. What else was buried here, forgotten by all? What else did Mr. Wong know, yet chose not to reveal?

He had a subtle mind.

Malcolm could feel himself smile. If he succeeded in dethroning Burgess, Desmond Wong had provided him with all the information he could ever need in his own rise to the top of Second National. With this treasure trove of information close at hand, there would be no skeleton in Second National’s closets that Malcolm wouldn’t know about. Some of the confidential memos he had already come across on personnel issues were jaw-dropping.

And all the while, he would owe Desmond Wong.

Mr. Wong, Malcolm suddenly realized, _was_ taking a risk. He was betting on a lizard in the lizard races but not one favored by the odds makers. He was betting Malcolm wouldn’t ruin him too. He was betting that Malcolm Cobb, scholarship boy and jumped-up tunnel rat, had more integrity than any of his better-bred peers.

He would reward that faith, as long as Desmond Wong didn’t play him false. Whatever he had done in the past to ensure his exile might be found in a filing cabinet. Or would Desmond Wong have carefully removed the evidence? He had access and no oversight to stop him.

His stomach growled suddenly, reminding him it was getting on towards lunch. He didn’t have time to eat at the Dappled Yak and he didn’t want to join the rest of the branch office’s staff. Socializing with them over lunch was still very awkward. Malcolm sighed again. It would be faster and maybe, while he listened to the bank staff gossip about people he didn’t know, he’d think of something he could do about Mr. Burgess to save Shelby.

*****

Airik left the ballroom with a strong sense of relief. Mr. Burgess had carefully avoided him; it was easy enough to do for both of them since Mr. Burgess, draped in violently colored cabbage roses, could not hide in the crowd. He had learned one thing during his strained conversations. Nobody liked Sajag Burgess and nobody could explain to Airik’s satisfaction why he held the power he did. That was interesting and led directly to speculation as to what kind of hold Mr. Burgess had over some of the businessmen of Panschin along with his peers at Second National.

Even more interesting was that Maerski, Atto, Davis, and Fuziwara didn’t have an explanation, despite their own extensive dealings and subsidiary holdings in Panschin. He would have expected better. Airik had quite a bit of background information on the political and business leaders in his own free-city of Purnell, despite Shelleen never having been rich enough to influence the city. That situation was changing, thanks to the Red Mercury lode. Similarly, he knew far more about the demesnes surrounding Shelleen than he had in the past and for the same reason.

Yet the daimyos of the demesnes encircling Panschin didn’t know what was happening in their own backyard.

That was interesting too, as it implied that the leading demesnes in the Northern Mining Tier weren’t nearly as capable in their business dealings as their public relations claimed they were. This could leave more room for Shelleen’s own expansion into the mining business. His demesne had substantial mineral deposits, mostly unexploited.

Airik allowed himself a smile. He would make Shelleen rich and do it in such a way that the wealth would benefit his demesne for generations to come. Shelleen would become a powerhouse in the quadrant. They’d no longer be an ignored and scorned backwater, always last on the list for political alliances, business deals, and advantageous marriages.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Gaston,” Airik said, storing away thoughts of which site to exploit first and whether or not he should do his own in-house refining, thus earning a better profit.

“I’ve been sorting through the reports that you had been working on with Upton, getting ready for the next round of meetings. Where is the report on Chung/Banerjee? I can’t find it.”

“It’s not in Upton’s case?”

“No, sir. The contents were wildly disarrayed, so I had to check each piece of paper.” Gaston stopped and sneezed violently. After recovering and mopping his face clean, he said, “I’ve seen Upton sneezing. Has Panschin been getting to him? He’s normally fastidious about his paperwork for you.”

“Yes, it has,” Airik said. On his way out of the infirmary, the hotel doctor had uttered the dread word ‘pneumonia’ as something he was watching out for. “Unfortunately, he’s barely conscious in the infirmary so I doubt we’ll get an answer from him.”

“We have to have that report, sir, for the meeting. It contains all the data from Chung/Banerjee along with my own estimates.”

“Is that the only one missing?”

“I believe so, but I was only searching for this report.”

“Damnation,” Airik said.

He knew where the report was. It was undoubtedly sitting in the stack of papers on the table in the room he was using as an office at the White Elephant. No one here knew where the White Elephant was and he didn’t want them to know. Elliot was most likely ensconced at the main library in Dome Six and wouldn’t be back for hours. Or he could be someplace else, tracking down a lead. Nunzio couldn’t read well enough to be sent to get it and come back with the correct report. If he brought back the entire stack of documents, he’d bring back the report on Simon Bradwell and Gaston might see it.

There was no help for it. On the other hand, he’d get to see Veronica Bradwell again and, perhaps, have her smile at him before he returned to Dome Six and the meeting with Chung/Banerjee. The thought was energizing.

“I have to retrieve it,” Airik said.

“What? Can’t someone else?” Gaston asked. Maybe he’d find out where Airik was hiding and he could hide there too, away from the increasingly maddening Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. The concierge, fully aware of Gaston’s tastes in excruciating and embarrassing detail, would not leave him alone. That person (Gaston refused to use the term ‘gentleman’), having spotted a lucrative stream of income for the hotel, wanted to keep it free-flowing. Gaston found himself desperately wishing again he had never come to Panschin. It had brought back terrible memories; memories he had tried to bury since his arrival in ways he would have never dreamed he would do.

“No. It won’t take long. I’ll return in well under an hour. I’ll take Nunzio along. I trust you can handle the Chung/Banerjee delegation effectively.”

Gaston looked uncomfortable, frowning at him; then his face brightened as he realized what Airik had said. He knew what Shelleen required of Chung/Banerjee and by taking care of things in Airik’s absence, he could prove his continued worth to the daimyo of Shelleen. He, Gaston, was the senior head of Shelleen’s tiny mining division, after all. It was his duty and his privilege to represent the daimyo.

“Yes, sir,” Gaston said, his face much happier. “I’ll have them primed for your return.”

‘Ah’, Airik thought. ‘With the right push, I can get something useful out of Gaston.’

***** 

Malcolm sat at the end of the large lunch table in the branch office, cautiously eating his carefully selected sandwich. Whoever had chosen the menu, once they knew he was eating in, had gone to great pains to choose the messiest sandwiches. He felt so paranoid, thinking such a thing, but he didn’t let that stop him from selecting the sandwich that seemed least likely to spurt its juicy innards all over his best everyday suit when he bit into it. This particular sandwich wasn’t his favorite by any means. Sadly, what he preferred was messy to eat, even if delicious. He wondered, with an inward sigh, when he’d be able to eat something he liked without fretting over his table manners being dissected for flaws.

As he did so, he listened to the conversation swirling around him. Despite the widely different levels in status, the branch staffers all knew each other quite well and, apparently, even socialized outside of work. He wouldn’t have believed that Mr. Wong would know anything about his junior tellers’ lives or know the names of his loan officers’ children. Nonetheless, the idle chatter filling the air showed he did. Mr. Wong had told him all the senior members of the local branch had been exiled here by Burgess, so they held that situation in common. Yet Mr. Wong also knew what his junior tellers’ lives were like enough to comment on what they were sharing. It was eye-opening to say the least, seeing how a friendly social life could co-exist with a business life. With enough time, he might be invited into the conversation as well, as the local staffers got to know him better and came to understand he wasn’t a threat.

One thing Malcolm had learned from his scholarship experiences was how much business was done outside of an office setting. It wasn’t that different really from the Steelio warren. You learned who you could rely on and who you couldn’t based on what any given person did at home as well as in the tunnels. But friendships could and did cross status lines inside Steelio. There were a variety of leagues and groups to join, bringing together people with common interests.

Then it hit him. There was his answer.

If he could prove Burgess knew Simon Bradwell on a social level, outside of the office, he could, possibly, demonstrate a connection that couldn’t be ignored while at the same time shielding the bank executives that Burgess had carefully implicated in Bradwell’s schemes. Based on what he had already discovered in the filing cabinets, Malcolm knew which executive at Second National to approach first: a man who made no secret of his rivalry with and open distaste for Burgess. Some of the confidential, high-level memos he had scanned had been most enlightening. This executive would become an eager ally if it meant seeing Sajag Burgess thrown out on his knees onto a pile of tailings.

Malcolm finished his sandwich hurriedly while he thought hard. Shelby had told him she had never heard of Burgess. It had been patently clear that neither Burgess nor Veronica knew each other. But there was their elderly aunt, Neza Molony. Her niece had married Simon Bradwell. She belonged to the correct social strata. She could know of social organizations or clubs that Simon Bradwell and Burgess might have in common. It was, at any rate, a place to start and Neza Molony had compelling reasons to revisit the past, seeking a connection between the nephew by marriage who had ruined her great-nieces and the man now threatening her and them with homelessness and further ruin.

“Mr. Wong,” he said.

“Yes, Cobb?” Mr. Wong answered, taking his time about it. “Eager to get back to those filing cabinets?”

Malcolm caught a gleam in Mr. Wong’s eye. He was unsure of what Mr. Wong was implying. That was the problem with being too subtle of mind. It was far too easy for the recipient to miss the clue being sent. He would have to go with what he knew he had to do next and Mr. Wong would have to live with it.

“I am, sir. They certainly did need a thorough scrubbing and I’ll be returning to them frequently. However, I need to check in at the White Elephant and reassure the residents that the bank is doing everything possible to assist them,” Malcolm said. He very carefully did not mention Mr. Burgess’s name.

“A good choice, Cobb,” Mr. Wong replied. “You’ll clear your lungs out from the dust in the second subbasement and reassure our clients that they come first with us here at the local branch, no matter what outside pressures are brought to bear.”

So, he had interpreted Mr. Wong correctly. “Thank you, sir,” Malcolm said.

*****

On the way over to the White Elephant from the branch office, Malcolm worked out how to follow the lode seam. He’d start with Neza Molony. She had to know _something_ about the social milieu Simon Bradwell and Sajag Burgess lived and worked in. She was born into it and people at that level absorbed the rules and structures through osmosis. She might also be able to supply names to him for further research, names of people who might be willing to speak to him.

The difficulty was that it would all take so much time. He had a sneaking suspicion that Burgess wouldn’t give him much time. Burgess had his own agenda, one that involved keeping his own nefarious activities safely undercover. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have cared so much about Veronica Bradwell. Was it possible that Burgess was worried about discovery?

Well, sure he was worried. He had to be. Burgess, like Simon Bradwell, knew damn well he was dirty and couldn’t bear public exposure. Yet there was something else. Malcolm could almost see the thought waving at him. He had a sudden intuition that Burgess knew he was standing on scree, shifting and sliding beneath his feet. There was no reason to think such a thing. Burgess had been successfully covering his tracks for years. Yet he had reacted very strongly to Veronica Bradwell, threatening to evict her at his earliest opportunity.

It had been too strong a reaction, Malcolm decided. The most sensible response would have been to stalk off in a huff, ignoring Miss Bradwell as dross beneath his notice. Evicting her would resurrect old scandals. Rehashing those old scandals might lead to questions or speculation that would connect Mr. Burgess with Simon Bradwell in a new way, since all the previous case studies and news coverage had never specifically linked their names.

Hmm. Perhaps Mr. Burgess was under pressure from someone else.

Malcolm frowned at his unruly thoughts. Speculating about other pressures on Burgess didn’t help him dig out his own seam of ore. Since he knew nothing about other, outside pressures, he could do nothing with the idea.

There was another alternative route he could follow, but it was dangerous and put him in the position of self-corruption and becoming beholden to a group he wanted nothing to do with.

He could ask Jeffen what Blue Sun knew about Sajag Burgess.

Jeffen was low-ranking in Blue Sun’s hierarchy. Jeffen wouldn’t know anything but someone higher up might know of some activity Burgess needed to conceal from his business and social connections. Unfortunately, merely asking the question would put him in debt to both Jeffen and Blue Sun. They would both expect repayment of their own choosing, on their own schedule. Malcolm could lose before he even got started in his plans for eventually running Second National. Worse, if Blue Sun had no actionable information, he would have put himself in debt for nothing.

Worst of all was the possibility that Burgess was already working with Blue Sun. If he was, then merely asking the question of Jeffen would ensure Malcolm’s ruin along with his family and Shelby’s. Shelby giving a cloud painting to Jeffen would not protect her. Jeffen didn’t have enough clout to protect anyone from his masters.

There was also the issue of the thug. Was that thug connected with Blue Sun? Malcolm hadn’t spotted the telltale blue circle but they were never obvious. If the goon was a free-lancer, Blue Sun might be interested but not to help the Bradwells. They’d want someone so enterprising to join their organization. In fact, they would insist. Or, the thug might already be a member, in which case Blue Sun would be even less inclined to help him or the Bradwells. It was better to leave the thug to the police.

No, approaching Jeffen and asking Blue Sun for help was deeply problematic.

Then the scattered passersby approaching him spread out to make room for someone else hurrying through. They automatically provided elbowroom for the daimyo of Shelleen and his hulking bodyguard.

***** 

Airik expected the crowds to part before him whenever he walked out and about with Nunzio. It happened effortlessly and all on its own. It was a pleasant side-effect of having a hulking bodyguard. Street crowds had never, in the past, made room for him when he was plain Airik Shelleen. They weren’t really making room for him now. They were making room for Nunzio and he benefited.

What Airik did not expect was recognizing someone on the street in Dome Two in Panschin, particularly during the business day.

Malcolm Cobb spotted Airik and immediately veered over towards him. Here was a potential ally. The pretend Mr. Jones had shown a definite interest in keeping Veronica Bradwell safe from the thug and he had shown an even stronger distaste for Burgess. It was possible he might have, during his days at the Biennial Mining Conference, learned something about Burgess. He routinely spoke to high-status people who would never speak to a former tunnel-rat.

It was not yet time to tell Mr. Jones that his identity wasn’t such a secret to Malcolm Cobb. It also wasn’t the right moment to remind Mr. Jones that if he wanted his identity to remain a secret, he should have taken the time to change his obviously non-Panschin clothes (expensive and well-cut as they were) back to the drab standard-issue coverall that he had worn before. The bodyguard, Nunzio, was wearing a coverall but he never blended in no matter what he wore.

“Mr. Jones,” Malcolm said. “I was on my way to the White Elephant. May I presume you are going there also?”

“I am,” Airik replied.

So, Mr. Jones wasn’t going to volunteer information about his activities. Malcolm decided to get right to the point, spurring some kind of response.

“You recall Mr. Burgess’s threats to Miss Bradwell?” Malcolm said.

He watched with interest as Airik Jones’ face darkened with a well-controlled fury. The daimyo of Shelleen had a connection of some kind to Veronica Bradwell and not just because he wanted to hide in Dome Two for some mysterious reason. Good. He could work with that.

“I do.” Airik paused, studying Malcolm Cobb. The banker was still behaving as though he didn’t recognize Airik’s identity. Good. That gave time to plan what to do when Cobb asked him to invest in some ridiculous business scheme.

“I’ve been asking questions about Sajag Burgess at the Biennial Mining Conference. How does he retain any power?” Airik asked. “He seems a buffoon, yet no one could provide me with reasons why he isn’t on his knees sifting tailings.”

Malcolm smiled inwardly. So, the daimyo of Shelleen cared very much. It might be time to lay some of his cards on the table.

“Are you familiar with the name ‘Simon Bradwell’?” Malcolm said.

To Malcolm’s great interest, the daimyo of Shelleen stopped walking. His bodyguard also stopped walking and watched Malcolm carefully while openly listening.

“I am,” Airik replied. His mind raced. What should he reveal? Veronica Bradwell should have meant nothing to him, yet she was becoming very important indeed. He had been looking forward to seeing her again, from the moment he left the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel and descended into Panschin’s metro system and all during his walk from the transit station. The thought of seeing her, of amusing her, of hearing her liquid laugh and warming himself in her smile had put a spring in his step. He could be sure she had recovered from Dean Kangjuon’s attack.

What did he want to admit to some assistant manager of the Second National Bank of Panschin about her background or more importantly, his own? However, during each of their previous meetings, Malcolm Cobb had not seemed like a buffoon. He immediately stepped in when the thug had accosted Veronica. He was most decidedly interested in Shelby Bradwell. He was interested enough to reveal his own checkered background; a background that would have gotten him thrown out of any household that was concerned with keeping up appearances. He had even revealed his background to the PanU Artists’ Collective, guaranteeing that he could not conceal it in the future. Malcolm Cobb demonstrated integrity, unlike himself.

His mind made up, Airik said “I am fully aware of Miss Bradwell’s relationship to Simon Bradwell. I have only a beginning understanding of her father’s criminal behavior towards his clients, since the case is so complex. I believe, based on what I have learned within the last few days, that Simon Bradwell had extensive assistance from someone very highly placed. He must have, in order to conceal his embezzlement for so long. What I do not understand is why no one else seems to have noticed those discrepancies.”

Malcolm smiled coldly. “No one noticed because Sajag Burgess worked very closely with Simon Bradwell, covering their tracks. No one noticed because Burgess was very careful to implicate all of his peers at Second National. If they noticed, they would also have been sentenced to the Dirac mines, along with Burgess and Simon Bradwell.”

“Ah,” Airik said. “You know this to be true?”

“I’ve gained access to a treasure trove of files, complete in every detail.”

“Which also implicate the hierarchy of Second National?”

“Oh, yes,” Malcolm said. “I have to be very careful or I, my entire family, and the Bradwells will end up in the Dirac mines instead. I can’t air Second National’s dirty laundry without punishment.”

“I see. May I assume Simon Bradwell enjoyed similar relationships with the other banks of Panschin?” Airik asked.

“I believe so,” Malcolm said. “It’s logical and explains so much. However, I don’t have access to any other institution’s files, so I am basing my assumptions on the evidence I have along with the case studies I’ve read.”

Airik thought hard as they walked along. He could offer refuge in Shelleen to Veronica, her sister, her aunt, and, he sighed inwardly, Malcolm Cobb and quite probably Lulu and Florence as well. Then there was Malcolm Cobb’s own family. He’d have to take in everyone who was harmed. His own family would have plenty to say to him about harboring fugitives, even if they were fugitives from the justice of a free-city completely outside of the day-to-day purview of Shelleen. No Four Hundred family particularly cared what a free-city got up to as long as they didn’t interfere with the aristocracy. Four Hundred families were above the law within the government corridors and made their own law on their demesnes. At least Cobb’s family were miners and so could be put to work at once in Shelleen’s mines. They might even become an asset.

He would see Veronica every day, while his family scrutinized their every interaction with the single-minded intensity of cats stalking mice.

He wasn’t ready for that step. Instead, Airik said, “I watched Burgess threaten to call in Qiao & Schopenhour’s commercial paper.”

This time, Malcolm stopped walking and turned to Airik in shock, making him stop as well. “Burgess actually said that? Publicly? To Marmaduke Qiao?”

“No. He threatened Miss Winifred Qiao, but by extension the entire firm and both families. He wanted to bully her. I informed Marmaduke and Bertram Qiao upon their arrival after Burgess left.”

“Well,” Malcolm said, utterly astonished. “Burgess is dancing on the edge of a bottomless pit. I can’t imagine why he’d do something so asinine. He must have thought she’d stay quiet.”

“She might have, but I wasn’t going to.”

“You’ve put Qiao & Schopenhour in your debt.”

Airik allowed himself a cool smile. “How are they regarded in Panschin?”

‘Still not going to admit who you are to me,’ Malcolm thought. ‘But since you’ll be in _my_ debt, I can live with it.’

Aloud, he said, “Qiao & Schopenhour are a top-notch mining firm in Panschin, along with plenty of other interests. However, get every last detail in your contract spelled out in full and in writing. Don’t sign anything without a careful review on your part. Do not make any assumptions, no matter how minor. Marmaduke follows contracts to the letter but if you miss a detail, he’ll take full advantage, feeling he shouldn’t have to take care of your firm and your needs. That’s your job. He’s not a social climber either and so does not ever toady to a demesne, like Maerski, say, in order to do business.”

“I see,” Airik said. “Are there Schopenhours still with the firm?”

“Plenty, along with plenty of Qiaos, but the only person who counts is Marmaduke. He makes the decisions. As long as your firm is thinking of doing business with Qiao & Schopenhour, keep this in mind. Marmaduke won’t live forever and it’s expected in some quarters that the firm will tear itself apart in a bloodbath as soon as the families are positive he’s dead.”

“You said in some quarters,” Airik said. “Do you believe this?”

Malcolm wanted to leap with joy. The daimyo of Shelleen was listening to him carefully and asking him, a scholarship boy and former tunnel-rat, for his opinion.

“ _I_ don’t because I don’t believe Marmaduke would ever leave the firm in the lurch. He spent his whole life building it with his partner, Kantu Schopenhour, dead these last few years. Marmaduke wants to see it thrive for ten more generations. I’m sure he’s got a succession plan already in place and his successor already primed to step in, most likely Bertram. He allows rumors about a bloodbath since then, when he’s gone, the firm will be underestimated.”

“And now Sajag Burgess has gotten his attention,” Airik said. He remembered how the elder Mr. Qiao had signaled the younger Mr. Qiao to speak. Yes, it was quite likely Malcolm Cobb was correct in his analysis.

“Yes. Unfortunately, it won’t be fast enough for me to help Shelby,” Malcolm replied. “Or Veronica,” he added, watching Airik’s face closely. “Marmaduke prefers a slow, drawn-out process, sanding off the skin one layer at a time down to the bone. He’s never hasty. The people who run afoul of him never forget it, nor do they recover.”

“Interesting,” Airik said. He was coming to the understanding that Malcolm Cobb was very intelligent and observant; so much so that it was becoming impossible to believe that Cobb didn’t know who he was. Instead, Malcolm Cobb was choosing to pretend he didn’t recognize the daimyo of Shelleen for reasons of his own.

Malcolm broke the silence since the daimyo of Shelleen wasn’t leaping to rescue Veronica or Shelby Bradwell, damn him. He said, “I’m a scholarship boy. I don’t have the background or resources to figure out how and where Burgess and Bradwell interacted on a social basis, but I’m sure they did. If I can prove they knew each other well and did business together outside the formal institution of the bank, I might be able to force the issue. I know you’re not from Panschin, but it’s obvious you’re not just another middle manager. Do you have any suggestions?”

Airik gave him a cool look. “Why would you say that?”

Malcolm laughed heartily. “I’m not an idiot. You have a valet, a secretary, and a bodyguard. That’s not the norm for midlevel businessmen.”

“Nunzio,” Airik began.

“Is a bodyguard,” Malcolm said harshly, interrupting him. “It’s obvious. I saw Nunzio in action at the gallery showing. I saw how the street crowd couldn’t get out of his way fast enough. I’m not going to ask you why you need a bodyguard since it’s not my business to know. What I want is a suggestion as to where to go after I speak with Neza Molony.”

As Malcolm turned back to check the street sign, he caught a gleam of amusement in Nunzio’s eyes.

Airik chewed over Malcolm’s words. Damnation. Did he want to continue pretending he was plain Mr. Jones from Barsoom to the banker? He tabled that concern and moved on to the one whereby he could help Veronica without revealing his true self.

“I would suggest starting with Steelio, Mr. Cobb. You’re from their warren so I assume Mr. Steelio knows you, your family, and knows your abilities and reputation.”

“I hadn’t thought of him,” Malcolm admitted. “I try not to use Mr. Steelio, both because he’s already done so much for me and because I’m trying to get ahead on my own merits without reminding everyone I’m a tunnel rat.”

“In this case,” Airik said, “I believe you should. I’ve spoken with Steelio twice and he seems competent and honest.”

“He is that,” Malcolm agreed fervently. “Steelio warrens are the best by far. I’m not the only scholarship boy that Steelio has promoted either.”

They had reached Oleander Lane and turned down it, heading towards the White Elephant. As they walked past the ruined mansions encased in cocoons of terraformers, Airik thought of a change of subject, one that would keep Malcolm Cobb from asking him to get involved in some get-rich-quick scheme involving the Second National Bank of Panschin.

“How do the domes stay clean of terraformers?”

“They’re electrified,” Malcolm said. “A small charge pulses through the glassteel at regular intervals, just enough to keep the terraformers at bay.”

“I see,” Airik said. “I had wondered. Dome Six, unlike every other place in Panschin I’ve observed, does not seem overrun with terraformers. How does that Dome manage?”

“Same way,” Malcolm answered. “All the buildings have a regular pulse of electricity passed through their structure. Only Dome Six was built to stay self-cleaning. Everywhere else in Panschin, the terraformers have to be manually scrubbed clean off the buildings, every single structure, and everywhere light reaches inside them.”

“How much power does that draw?”

“A lot. Enough that the city could have provided streetlights in all the domes and cut the price of electricity by two-thirds for everyone in Panschin,” Malcolm said bitterly. “Hey.” He stopped at the gate to the White Elephant and stared at the house. “The front door is ajar.”

“I don’t see Miss Bradwell in the garden,” Airik said. He thought of Dean Kangjuon and his attempted assault on Veronica. “Something is wrong.”

Airik opened the gate, hearing the now-familiar shriek, and started down the pathway to the partially opened front door. It had never been left open in his experience without the door being attended to by someone.

“Burgess,” said Malcolm and ran after him, followed by Nunzio.


	29. Airik and Malcolm return to the White Elephant and what they discover

 “Sir,” Nunzio said, trying to get in front of Airik.

“Not now,” Airik snapped and ran around his bodyguard into the house, stopping in the atrium to listen, Malcolm right behind him. The house was dead quiet and then, from upstairs, they heard a crash, then a shrill scream followed by cursing.

“That doesn’t sound like Burgess,” Malcolm said as all three men turned as one to head up the atrium stairs. Malcolm found himself chasing up the left staircase with Airik while Nunzio pounded up the farther away, right-hand staircase, trying to get ahead of his boss.

They followed the sound of cursing and screams, punctuated with loud thwacks of wood on flesh, down the family’s hallway. There was a softer, angry voice as well, soft enough that they couldn’t hear it clearly.

The doors to the hallway were all open, showing Veronica and Shelby’s room empty. Neza’s bedroom was not empty.

Dean lay writhing on the floor, clutching his knee and cursing while Neza whacked him wherever she could reach with her shiny pink cane. She wasn’t doing much damage, not being strong enough, but it was apparent, at some point, she had managed to get the best of him.

“You bastard,” she scolded. “You did this to us. You heartless, worthless bastard.”

“I had to,” Dean sobbed as he tried to roll away, protecting his knees and ribs from her cane. He made no attempt to fight her.

“No, you did not. You are weak, Dean,” Neza said coldly. “Weak.”

“Miss Molony,” Airik and Malcolm spoke at the same time.

Neza gasped and looked up, her face a sudden study in terror, but when she recognized them, she relaxed. Dean did not. He recognized Airik and moaned, pulling himself tighter into a ball and turning his face towards the wall.

“What is going on,” Airik asked. “Where is Veronica?”

“And Shelby,” Malcolm asked. “And who’s that?” He pointed at Dean.

“Miss Bradwell’s worthless former husband,” Airik answered.

“Betraying former husband,” Neza said wearily. She stopped hitting Dean and leaned on her cane. She was shaking with exhaustion and fear. “You have to save my nieces. They’re in the tunnels under the White Elephant with that thug and his partner.”

“What?” Malcolm said. “That goon came back? He has a partner?”

“There are tunnels under the building?” Airik asked. “Wait. Is there a connection between Dean and the thug who threatened Miss Bradwell?”

“I’ll explain on the way downstairs,” Neza said. “They haven’t been gone long, just long enough for me to limp upstairs with Dean to retrieve the lease paperwork.”

“She tripped me and hit my knee with her cane,” Dean whined.

Airik thought quickly. A connection between Dean and the thug might be the reason Veronica’s former husband had been so persistent. He needed facts.

“Nunzio,” Airik said. “You keep an eye on Dean. Neza, explain now. Not on the way.”

“Neza,” Malcolm said, “I agree. Now.”

“No,” Neza spat out. “On the way. We have to hurry.” She limped towards the open doorway, heading determinedly towards the hallway and the landing to the stairwell. She did not check to see if they followed, and started talking as if they were. Malcolm and Airik dutifully followed, filled with questions that they held in check.

All three men listened in horror as Neza explained what had happened as she hobbled down the hallway, now supported by Malcolm on one side and Airik on the other. Nunzio followed behind, carrying a silent, weeping Dean.

By the time they reached the stairwell landing leading to the first floor, Airik had reached his conclusions.

“Mr. Cobb,” Airik said, as he trotted down the wide stairs, supporting Neza on one side with Malcolm on her other side.

“Call me Malcolm,” Malcolm said.

“You still go into the tunnels on a regular basis. What is below us here?”

“Old, old tunnels,” Malcolm said. “This region was dug out generations ago.”

“Do these tunnels lead anywhere or are they blind alleys?”

“I doubt if anyone knows anymore. I need to go down now, to rescue Shelby and Veronica. You can go for help, Mr. Jones,” Malcolm said.

“No. I’m going with you.”

“I’m still a miner, Mr. Jones.” Malcom gave Airik a long, searching look over Neza’s head. “I know tunnels, I know mine sign, I know what to expect. How much time have _you_ spent in the deepdown?”

“Enough to know what I’m doing,” Airik replied.

“You certainly aren’t dressed for it.”

“Neither are you.”

“Sir,” Nunzio said. “You can’t go down there.”

Airik, having reached the atrium floor, let go of Neza, helped her to a chair, and turned back to Nunzio, stony faced, who was still coming down the stairs carrying Dean.

“Are you telling me I can’t?”

“Yes sir, I am. You can’t. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“No, it is not. Your job is to do what I tell you to do. You stay with Neza. Extract any information out of Dean you can about the thug and his partner and their boss, I don’t care how. The thug’s boss is still out there and he may return looking for them. You’ll need to ready for that risk.”

“What the hell am I doing here in Panschin if I’m not protecting you?” Nunzio protested.

“Following my orders,” Airik replied.

“I wouldn’t take you into the deepdown anyway,” Malcolm interjected. “I know how to wiggle through tight spaces in the dark. I’ve left plenty of skin behind to prove it. You’re bigger than I am and I can’t help Shelby and Veronica if I’m trying to shepherd a newbie through a squeeze.

“As for you, _Mr. Jones_ ,” he added. “What kind of real experience does the daimyo of Shelleen have in the deepdown?”

“I thought you recognized me,” Airik said, not bothering to deny reality.

“Stop this foolish posturing this instant,” Neza snapped, her patience completely gone. She smacked her cane on the floor for emphasis, making Dean cringe back against Nunzio’s chest. “My nieces are in danger. Either go down and rescue them right now or go get help right now and quit this yammering.”

“Neza, give me directions to the correct room in your second subbasement,” Airik said. “I expect detailed information from Dean and yourself about the situation upon my return. Nunzio. Guard the house. Do not allow anyone else inside other than the police. Malcolm. Shall we go?”

“Yes. You can tell me what experience a daimyo of an agricultural demesne has in the deepdown on the way down.”

“Call me Airik,” Airik replied and headed down the stairwell to the lowest level of the White Elephant, Malcolm close behind.

The very short trip, made faster by fear and dread, didn’t leave much time for Airik to brief Malcolm on his earlier life as just another member of the Shelleen family, working in and eventually slated to run its small mining operations, until the discovery of the Red Mercury Lode. Once in the second subbasement room, Malcolm located and lit the remaining pair of lanterns.

As he did so, they heard another scream, broken and wavering, this one echoing up the shaft from the darkness below through the open hatch.

Malcolm didn’t hesitate. He flung himself at the hatch and scrambled down the ladder, lantern in hand. If the daimyo of Shelleen wanted to follow, he was welcome to do so. Malcolm could only hope he wasn’t too late. He also hoped he wouldn’t have to rescue Airik Shelleen from the perils of the deepdown. He’d leave Airik behind if it meant saving Shelby and Veronica, despite the host of problems that would arise from doing so.

He knew he was heading towards a fight in the tunnels, always a dicey proposition, especially since he’d probably have to do it in the dark. It wasn’t like the thugs – two of them according to Neza – would nicely let him hang up his lantern and choose a larger cavern where there would be room to maneuver. This fight would be up-close, in the shadows, and vicious; knives and fists, knees and elbows and feet, surrounded by unyielding, uncaring rock that did its own damage to flesh slammed against it.

The deepdown always welcomed a blood meal. It did not discriminate based on motives.

***** 

Veronica took a cautious step forward, feeling the thug’s eyes boring into her back. Then another. She couldn’t see what lay before her very well. The thug did hold up the lantern but the pool of light didn’t extend far enough for her to move quickly and she blocked much of the light with her own body. The shadows capered across the ceiling, walls and floor of the small cavern behind her as well as the much narrower passageway before her, revealing and then concealing. There were spots of glitter here and there from water drips which helped to conceal the earbobs she had thrown down at the mouth of the tunnel.

“You’re not moving fast enough,” the thug said.

“I’m afraid of tripping,” Veronica replied as calmly as she could manage. “It’s uneven so you should watch your feet.”

They worked their way slowly down the tunnel, Veronica keeping her hand on the wall so she wouldn’t miss the turn. There were two righthand side openings, and she decided, on the spur of the moment, to take the second, farther away one. This particular tunnel’s width varied wildly, from the narrow opening near the hatch to considerably wider farther along when they reached a long-ago vestige of some ancient cavern. The wider section held the two side tunnels. After that, this particular tunnel tightened to a squeeze just wide enough to walk through without brushing the sides with her shoulders and she had to duck her head. The thug and his partner wouldn’t make it through that section easily. Her measured, painstaking progress gave her more time to think what she could do to salvage the situation. She wished desperately she had never made up such a stupid lie about finding dear old dad’s stash of coin.

No one was coming to save her and her sister. She had to do it, but how? Shelby wouldn’t be any help. Her sister, Veronica knew, was probably too terrified to think rationally anymore. At least she was still capable of following directions, rather than panicking and screaming and trying to run blindly down a tunnel.

She herself was able to think again. What could she do? She couldn’t possibly fight off the thug or his partner. They were probably armed, pocket knives at the very least, and they had no inhibitions about hurting anyone with their fists. Dean’s injuries were livid and painful proof. She had nothing in her pockets, not even a gardening tool. She wanted to stroke and rub her bead necklace again but the thug holding one hand and keeping her other hand on the tunnel wall made it impossible.

He was holding her hand. Why was he doing that? He knew she wouldn’t escape. If she ran, he would take out his fury on Shelby. His hand was sweaty in hers and she could hear him breathing harder than he should have for such minor exertion.

Then Veronica saw a possibility. He wasn’t holding her hand just to keep her from running off. The thug was afraid. He was afraid of being dozens of meters below the surface in a narrow tunnel. It was dark, cold, alien, and unwelcome to life. He didn’t know where he was. As the ceiling of the tunnel got lower and closer, he had to lower his arm holding the lantern and he had to duck his head more. Pebbles moved and shifted under their feet, making a whispery, rattling sound, and his fingers squeezed painfully around hers every time they did.

He was afraid. And if the thug was afraid, it was a good bet his partner, Charlie, was terrified. Shelby was trapped between them. She could, Veronica realized with a start, tear her hand free and run down the tunnel and escape. But she wouldn’t escape without her sister.

He was afraid. He was afraid of the tunnel maze. He was afraid of the millions of tons of rock overhead waiting to crush him into jelly. He was afraid of the dark. He was probably afraid of getting lost and dying of thirst in the endless labyrinth of night.

She did have an advantage over him; several in fact. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, total as it was. She knew nothing lived down here. She knew the tunnels wouldn’t collapse. She knew something about the maze they formed. There were dead ends, shafts leading farther downwards, and crisscrossing passageways that had fooled her and Dean into walking in circles. It was possible to hide but only if it was dark. The tunnels would help when they got narrow and low, too narrow and too low for the thug and his partner to wiggle through. She had to get to Shelby and pull her away and then they could hide, invisible in the dark. They wouldn’t even have to go very far, if they remained quiet.

They could hide in the dark, but only if it was dark for everyone. She had to break the lanterns, leaving them all on an even footing. These tunnels had no bioluminescence that she had discovered. She and Dean had experimented with blowing out the lantern. The darkness was complete, total, all encompassing, thick and smothering in its intensity. Nothing was visible, only solid blackness. Closing her eyes during deep winter nights was the palest imitation of the endless midnight that lived underneath Panschin in the deepdown. She supposed it was like being blind, but with the added pressure of suffocation. Eventually, if you waited long enough in the dark, as she and Dean had discovered, your brain decided that you could see; black shapes moving against a black background, but it was a trick, a deceiving hallucination designed to make you stumble into stone and hurt yourself.

When she and Dean had experimented, sound and touch became all-important ways to navigate; one hand on the tunnel wall, stepping as cautiously as possible on the uneven floor, keeping the other hand overhead to avoid the rocky outcroppings hanging down from the tunnel ceiling. They had to listen intently, hoping to hear something, anything to indicate where they were. Sometimes there were strange sounds, but not the ones they made themselves. Sometimes they could be right next to each other, yet hear almost nothing, where as in other places in the tunnels, sound bounced around like rubber balls, echoing and ricocheting until they didn’t know where it came from. Sometimes the sounds knocked against the tunnel walls like someone at the door and other times they dragged and wavered, changing pitch and volume randomly.

She and Shelby could hide in the dark.

The turn into the side passageway came at last, and she led the group down the new tunnel, darker and narrower than before, with a much rougher floor. The light seeping down the hatch had long since vanished as if it had never existed. This tunnel would widen suddenly, becoming wide enough for her to walk with her arms outstretched and not brush the walls. The natural cavity would then suddenly get narrow, leaving far less room to maneuver. The rock overhead was lower, rough and uneven, and it wouldn’t be long before the thug following her would slam his head into a rock outcropping. He’d have to stoop. Time was running out for her to figure out how to get away with Shelby and hide in the dark.

It was cold and she couldn’t stop herself from shivering. The thug must have been even colder, with only his thin shirt to protect him. Shelby’s teeth chattered, but she couldn’t tell whether from cold or fear or both. The ceiling of the tunnel had damp spots and droplets of icy water fell at random, making Veronica and Shelby both gasp when one landed.

Charlie snarled and swore suddenly, stumbling against Shelby who squealed and pushed up against the thug in her panic, pushing him into Veronica and stopping her in her tracks. His lantern swung with the impact, making the shadows writhe.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Charlie,” the thug growled, correctly interpreting Shelby’s frightened shove into him and her whimpered pleas as her attempt to escape Charlie rather than attack him. “If you can’t keep your damn hands to yourself, I’ll cut them off.”

“It’s not my fault,” Charlie whined. “I tripped on something.”

“Cause you ain’t paying attention, you coglione.”

“Please be careful, Shelby,” Veronica said.

“What about me,” the thug demanded. He tightened his fingers around hers again. He was standing so close to her, he could pull her against him effortlessly. She wouldn’t be able to move.

She had to say something so he wouldn’t do just that.

“I do want you to be careful. It’s just that I don’t believe a man like you needs constant reassurance and handholding the way Shelby does or Charlie for that matter,” she replied. Veronica carefully did not say one word about the thug’s hand wrapped around her own or how his breathing had quickened.

“I don’t need handholding,” Charlie spat.

“Then why are you grabbing at me?” Shelby whimpered. “You keep putting your hands on me.” She pushed closer to the thug, desperate to get away from Charlie. Veronica could hear her sister’s panting breath and chattering teeth and knew Shelby was close to her breaking point.

“I did not, you lying bitch,” Charlie muttered.

“Shut up, both of you,” the thug said. “Keep moving.”

He held the lantern up higher, but it swung as he did, making the shadows leap and the slow water seeps catch the light and flash. They were in the widest part of this tunnel, with space to turn and move. The tunnel walls were mottled dark browns and roughly cut, worn away by time and ancient water. One wall had strange chalk markings on it, blurred into the rock by time and moisture. Each uneven spot formed a pool of blackness that shifted and moved as his lantern swung from his hand. The ceiling was markedly uneven, with lumps of rock hanging down, dripping onto the floor. He couldn’t hold the lantern as high as he had before. A stalactite would knock it out of his hand if he wasn’t careful.

The thug pointed at the blurry chalk scrawl. “What’s that mark?”

“I don’t know,” Veronica answered. “Dean and I never worked out what they meant. They’re kind of random.”

Actually, they weren’t. She didn’t know what the symbols meant but nearly always, there was a chalk drawing near a junction of tunnels or near a downshaft.

Then a sound rolled down through the tunnel, gaining in volume, whooshing and echoing from somewhere else, and dying away slowly, causing the thug and Charlie to gasp. Veronica heard Shelby squeal again, more frightened than before.

Veronica quickly snatched her hand from the tunnel wall and seized her necklace. She wrenched it off, scattering beads onto the ground. Each bead landed with a ping, the multiple sounds rattling and echoing in the tunnel, echoing the earlier sound. She caught the broken strand, with its handful of remaining beads and thrust them into her pocket. The dropped beads skittering across the tunnel floor caught the light, like tiny eyes, and set tiny pebbles moving when they knocked into them.

As she had hoped, the thug stopped at once, and even better, Shelby shrieked, “cave-vipers!” and lunged forwards against the thug, throwing him off balance. He stepped on a patch of wet slick stone and his foot slipped, making him curse, as he stumbled and banged painfully into the tunnel wall.

He let go of Veronica’s hand.

She whipped around and slapped her hand into his lantern, knocking it from the thug’s hand and smashing it into the tunnel wall. Its flame went out at once.

The only lantern left was Charlie’s. He was yelling about cave-vipers and swinging his lantern wildly trying to see where they lay in wait to bite him. How could she reach it and break it, without getting too close? He’d grab her, or worse, the thug would. The thug wouldn’t let go of her a second time. _He_ scrabbled madly, reaching for her in the tunnel while she stumbled away from his grasping hands. With one lantern gone, the cavern got that much darker, the moving shadows blacker. Then a second, creaking noise rolled down the tunnel terrifying Shelby anew.

She screamed as loudly as only Shelby could, finished with “it’s caving in! The tunnel’s caving in! We’re going to die!”

Charlie screamed even louder than Shelby, deafening in the tunnel, swung his lantern to avoid falling rock and hit a stalactite, plunging the tunnel into darkness.

Veronica stumbled back against the thug who grabbed at her in the inky blackness, trying to reach Shelby, screaming in terror. He tried to pull her to him, forcing her against the tunnel wall. She yanked free, tearing her coverall, and shoved him away, back into the damp, rough wall, smacking his head against the rock. The noise of Shelby’s screams was deafening, echoing back and forth up and down the tunnel. She tripped over the thug in the darkness again, then caught her sister’s arm.

Shelby screamed louder, trying to pull away from her sister’s grip.

“Shelby, grab my hand,” Veronica hissed and to her intense relief, her sister heard her and stopped fighting her. Her screams subsided to whimpers and pants. She yanked her sister’s hand trying to lead Shelby, stumbling down the tunnel, and away from the thug and Charlie, both cursing and swatting at the darkness. He hit at her, trying to haul her too him but she was able to pull away, bruised but free. She was willing to scrape up against the slimy, chilly tunnel walls whereas he was afraid of getting too close to them. He was tall enough to slam his head on the stalactites and she was short enough to miss them.

The darkness was complete; suffocating and immobilizing. It pressed down against all of them, a heavy physical force of its own. A few halting steps were all that were needed to put Veronica and Shelby out of his reach, steps that scraped her skin against the tunnel wall and smashed her feet against the rough floor.

The tunnel narrowed without warning and the ceiling got lower, working to her advantage. She could maneuver without hitting her head on a rock outcrop and, based on his louder curses, the thug could not.

Then Shelby started screaming again. She screamed and screamed and screamed, her screams echoing and reverberating against the tunnel walls. It was earsplitting and completely covered the sounds of Veronica’s breathing and movements.

Words finally became clear in Shelby’s hysterics: “it touched me! Something touched me!”

Veronica tugged Shelby closer to her, trying to drag her a few steps farther away up the constricting tunnel. Had the thug and Charlie gotten closer? Close enough to reach them and that was what Shelby felt? She yanked and tugged and dragged her screaming sister farther down the increasingly narrow passageway, the smothering darkness blocking every sense other than touch and sound and the smell of sweaty fear. Then she slipped, taking her sister down onto the tunnel floor with her as she stumbled to her knees. Her sister struggled against her, wanting to run and run and run away but there was no safe place to run to.

She squirmed, wrapping herself around Shelby to trap her in place, and finally worked a hand free to clamp over Shelby’s mouth. Silencing Shelby didn’t silence the tunnel; her screams still reverberated back and forth, slowly dying. As Shelby’s screams ebbed away, Veronica’s own hearing struggled to return. Her ears rang. But with Shelby’s screams dying away, Veronica could hear the thug and Charlie yelling at each other, and at her. The thug’s rage was incandescent, almost visible in the total and smothering darkness.

If they caught her now, they would beat her and Shelby to death, after raping them both. The thug and Charlie would then be lost forever in the deepdown, dying slowly of thirst and the insanity brought on by the all-encompassing weight of darkness. Their bodies might be found eventually, along with her and her sister’s.

Veronica pushed the frightening images aside. Thinking that way led to madness and freezing in fear and not to escape. They were still alive, the thug didn’t have his hands on her, and that meant she still had a chance.

She whispered to Shelby, “shut up! Shut up! Stop fighting me.”

Her sister wriggled and squirmed, trying to climb closer to her, but she kept quiet when Veronica removed her hand. Shelby’s face was wet with tears and snot, her hair in strings. She shivered violently.

“Shh,” Veronica soothed in a whisper. “Shh. We have to be absolutely quiet.” She held her sister tightly, sharing welcome body heat and reassuring touch.

Shelby gulped, the sound clearly audible, and Veronica heard the thug inhale sharply from somewhere not too far away.

“That bitch! She’s not far.” She recognized the thug’s voice. It was harsher now, revealing how vicious he really was.

“I can’t see a damn thing,” Charlie whined.

“Neither can I. Shut up and listen.”

“Can’t we go back?”

“We need them. We need _her_ ,” the thug growled. “You think that useless Dean’s gonna be able to lie to those bank guys? They’ll believe _her_.”

“You just want the money,” Charlie spat.

“Oh, I want that money. More than ever. And I want Ronnie. She’ll regret trying to cheat me every single day of the rest of her life.” He paused, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m gonna enjoy what I do to her. I’m gonna take my time. I won’t leave a mark where it will show, but she will never forget what she did to me for one second. She’ll never cheat me again. She won’t dare.”

Veronica couldn’t stop herself from shaking. It would be better to die in the tunnels with Shelby than go back anywhere near him.

“What if we can’t get back?” Charlie asked. He hiccupped, sounding as if he was near to tears, and she could hear his teeth chattering.

“We just go back the way we came, you poncy little sod. Try and think. Don’t know why the boss said you had to come to Panschin along with me. Manuel would have been better for this job. You are useless.”

“I wish we’d stayed in Barsoom,” Charlie whimpered.

“I wish you’d stayed in Barsoom too,” the thug growled. “This was a plum assignment. It would get me rank. I’d run this hellhole of a town eventually. You screwed this up for me, panicking and breaking the lantern and letting Ronnie get away.”

Charlie said, very slowly, “the big boss won’t like this.”

“No. He won’t. That’s why we are gonna find Ronnie, we are gonna find that money, we are gonna control that house, and I am gonna take over Panschin. I am not gonna fail. I know what happens to guys who fail.”

“I wish I’d never come to Panschin,” Charlie whined.

“So do I. Shut your gob and let me think.”

Veronica thought ‘so. Just like I thought, they’re not from Panschin. They don’t know anything about being underground.’

She shifted around Shelby so they could whisper to each other, feeling her way in the dark. She didn’t dare let go of her sister, fearing losing her in their shared blindness. Hugging her kept them both from shivering as much from cold and fear.

“Shelby,” Veronica whispered. “There are no cave-vipers. I want you to remember that.”

“But I _heard_ them,” Shelby whispered back. “Something _touched_ me.”

“That was Charlie. You heard pebbles underfoot and my breaking my necklace and you let your imagination run away with you, just like you always do.”

“That was _not_ him and I do not let ….” Shelby stopped, distracted. “You broke your necklace?”

“And I dropped my earbobs. To leave a trail.”

“Why are you wasting time telling me this?” Shelby whispered. “We have to get away.”

‘Thank the gods above and below,’ Veronica thought. ‘If she gets mad at me, my sister might be able to think again and that means she can help me. I hope.’

“Because I’m going to throw the rest of my beads at the thug and Charlie and I’m going to yell ‘cave-vipers.’ I don’t want you to panic.”

“You will? What should I do?”

“I want you to hold my hand while we work our way along the wall of the tunnel away from them. Do not let go of my hand, no matter what. And Shelby?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to scream like you’ve never screamed before about cave-vipers and cave-ins and cave-trolls and anything else scary you can think of. If those goons panic, they’ll hurt themselves trying to get away. There’s a mine shaft downwards in a side tunnel not too far from here. Maybe they’ll run into it in the dark, fall in, and break every bone in their bodies.”

“What if we run into it?” Shelby hissed.

“I’m going to be careful. They don’t know and they won’t be. Do not let go of my hand.”

“You better be right about this,” Shelby muttered, a vestige of her normal self peeking through her distraught nervousness.

“Me or them, Shelby. You choose,” Veronica whispered back harshly.

“You. Throw the beads.”

Veronica carefully felt down her body, reaching the pocket where she had stashed the remains of her cloudy bead necklace made from slag glass, her last piece of jewelry. It was the jewelry she had been able to keep because it was completely worthless to anyone but her. It wasn’t worthless now. Just like all her other jewelry, long since sold to save her little family, this last string of beads, like its matching earbobs, would save her little family.

She palmed the string, letting the beads slide off into her hand; crouched and twisted around back the way they had come. She needed to toss her loose beads so they made noise, pings and tinkles, and maybe even shake the scree they landed in, making it hiss like something slithering in the dark.

“Stand up, Shelby,” Veronica whispered. “Up against the tunnel wall. Real slow so you don’t hit your head on hanging rock.”

Shelby shuddered all over and whispered “it’s freezing and wet.”

Veronica had her arms wrapped around her sister. She could feel her sister’s shivers and how hard she was trying to keep her teeth from chattering so the noise would not betray them.

“I know. Try and be brave and then scream after I yell ‘cave-vipers’ and toss my beads. Then we’ll walk away as quiet as mine mice.”

“Got it.”

Veronica slowly stood, and freed her arms, letting go of Shelby’s shivering body. She kept one hand gripping Shelby’s and other holding her beads. She gritted her teeth. Would the thug and his partner panic? He was afraid, furiously angry, but still thinking. Charlie, though. Charlie was near panic from the sound of his voice, and his noisy, stumbling, toe-stubbing walk, and the sound of his arms hitting into the tunnel walls, and his whining every time he did so.

She cried out ‘cave-vipers’, then tossed the beads wide, hitting the ceiling, the walls, and then the beads landed on the tunnel floor in the loose scree. The sounds reverberated, and then she heard something else, from farther away, something that sounded like movement.

The second the beads stopped rattling, Shelby didn’t hesitate and screamed and screamed and screamed, releasing all her fear and terror. She screamed about cave-vipers and cave-ins and cave-trolls exactly as she had been told. Veronica screamed too, increasing the noise level and, gripping her sister’s hand, edged her way down the tunnel, nearer the shaft, keeping her back to the cold, damp wall. Shelby followed closely, screaming herself into hoarseness, but keeping up with her sister, step by step into the claustrophobic blackness weighing down on them and on everything else in the tunnels under Panschin.

***** 

Malcolm scrambled down the ladder, faster than he had ever descended a ladder in a shaft before. On the way down, he automatically processed the dead terraformers, the bare rungs on the ladder where someone’s hands had recently been, the way it creaked under his weight showing its age, the natural stone of the shaft and tool marks showing where men had widened and shaped it, the depth of the shaft, much deeper than he had expected. Why was this shaft here? It had also been narrower than he expected, with little room to maneuver.

It would be damn near impossible to haul someone injured up this ladder without specialized gear and a team of men working both ends.

All the while down, he heard someone screaming, the words lost in the sound, coming from somewhere farther down and farther away. It was impossible to tell in the tunnels where sounds came from; sometimes, they just appeared and no one knew why or from where. Other times, there were knockings. Knockings were a warning from what lived in the deepdown, a warning to get out.

He jumped the last few rungs, trusting what his eyes told him about the cavern floor below him, and the years of experience that enabled him to maneuver comfortably in the deepdown. Once on the ground, a sheet of uneven but relatively flat rock, he moved quickly to the center of the small, natural cavern. He could stand upright here and raise his arm high, allowing the lantern to fill the space with dim light. Malcolm turned slowly, counting the tunnel mouths opening off the cavern. The bare rock left no sign of footsteps. He could still hear screaming and voices but he couldn’t tell where they came from. Shelby and Veronica could be trapped in any of them. They might not even be together anymore.

He knew nothing of the thug or his partner. Did they have experience underground? If they did, they could be anywhere. They would have lanterns to light the way. There wasn’t a hint of light seeping from any of the tunnel mouths, indicating tunnel bends and the lanterns being far away. If they were members of Blue Sun, they were likely to be seasoned old hands and fully comfortable in the deepdown.

As Malcolm turned slowly back to the ladder, he watched Airik climb down rapidly, and then also leap confidently over the last few rungs.

As soon as Airik’s feet touched the ground, he lifted his own lantern and spun around, taking in the tunnel mouths, and then strode over to Malcolm.

“There’s mine sign,” Malcolm said, pointing to the pair of chalk markings on the wall. “This place is at the center of a maze of natural caverns and passages along with man-carved tunnels. There’s nothing heading back to the surface anywhere near here, but there’s a lot of downshafts. There’s another natural cave down the tunnel left from the ladder and across the way. Someone else drew the other chalk marking, a map of some sort, I believe, but the person who drew it didn’t know how to indicate mine features.”

“Do you see any sign of where Veronica and Shelby were taken?” Airik asked.

“No. And the sound won’t tell us.”

Airik frowned. “No, it won’t.” He lifted his own lantern high again, memorizing the mine sign Malcolm indicated. Then he stepped back and spun more slowly, studying the openings, and stopped suddenly.

“There.” He pointed at a tunnel mouth that looked just like the others. “Veronica went down that tunnel. I assume she’s with her sister.”

Malcolm gave him a look. “How can you know? The ground by the tunnel mouths is too smooth to take tracks.”

Airik smiled at the tunnel’s mouth, feeling a surge of hope wash over him.

“Veronica left me a sign.” He walked over and picked up first one earbob and then the other and held them up for Malcolm to see. “She knew I would recognize them. She knew I would come for her.”

Malcolm studied the earbobs, cloudy gray lumps of glass hanging from fine wires, flashing in the lantern light.

“You’re right. They don’t belong down here. We’ll take this tunnel to start with. There’s a down shaft a few hundred meters down this tunnel along with some side corridors. The real question is are those two thugs together with the girls?”

Airik considered this rapidly.

“I’d say yes. Veronica kept her earbobs together. I don’t believe the thugs are familiar with the tunnels below Panschin because if they were, they wouldn’t have needed Veronica to show them how to get down below nor would they have needed her to lead them to Simon Bradwell’s stash. They could have found it at their leisure. Bags of money do not get up and walk away on their own, particularly if they are hidden in a tunnel.

Malcolm’s eyes widened. “They’re not from Panschin. The thug I saw wasn’t dressed quite right, like your clothes aren’t from Panschin.” His face lit up with relief. “They’re not Blue Sun. They probably won’t know what they’re doing underground.”

“What is Blue Sun?” Airik asked.

“I’ll fill you in as we go. Quiet and fast. You know how sound can travel.”

“I heard knocking while on the ladder,” Airik said reluctantly.

“Yeah. We’ve got to move,” Malcolm replied. ‘If Airik knows what knocking means, he’s not a complete amateur,’ he thought with some relief. ‘And he handled himself well on the shaft ladder.’

He started moving, very quietly towards the tunnel mouth, Airik at his side.

“Can these lanterns be dimmed down?” Airik asked. “I don’t want them to see us before we see them. I don’t believe in handicapping myself in a fight.”

“Have you ever been in a fight? A real one, like a bar brawl?”

Airik thought of hitting Dean from behind. His knuckles still hurt from the punch. “Only once, but I have trained extensively. I can defend myself.”

“But can you take a punch?”

“Yes. I’ve done it often enough in practice.” Some of those punches had hurt like hell too, leaving bruises that sometimes lasted for days. It would, Airik understood, hurt far more when his opponent wasn’t concerned about inflicting permanent injury or killing him.

“Don’t expect these guys to play nice or fair.”

Airik smiled coldly. “I’m not a fool. I don’t plan on giving them the chance. We’ll ambush them.”

He paused for a moment. “The ideal conclusion is getting Veronica, Shelby, and us back aboveground safe and unharmed. If possible, I’d like to keep the thugs alive and in good enough condition to be questioned thoroughly.”

Malcolm thought ‘yeesh. Bet you’ve got someone on tap who can do questioning back in Shelleen or you know someone who does.’

“And if we can’t?” Malcolm asked.

“They can die underground from their injuries,” Airik replied coldly. “As long as we rescue Veronica and Shelby.”


	30. back in the tunnels (and through the darkness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> theres things crawling in the shadows
> 
> OR: in the tunnels beneath Panschin.

Veronica grimly led the way, clutching Shelby’s hand with a death grip. The tunnel got narrower and she had to feel her way, keeping her free hand in front of her, looking via touch for head-height obstacles, while keeping her side and shoulder pressed up against the cold rock wall. The stone was rough, abrading her hand and scraping her coverall into ribbons, and she knew she had bleeding cuts.

Every one of them stung. She hurt all over, from being slammed into the rock. It was cold, so cold, but she didn’t dare stop. She could hear angry shouts behind her but they kept wavering in and out of focus. Were they still real? Or was her own exhaustion and fear making her hear things that weren’t there?

She couldn’t ask Shelby. Her sister shook and trembled, her feet unsteady, and she kept bumping into her in the dark. Shelby was near to exhaustion as well.

They would have to stop and rest, Veronica decided. She was so tired. Lunch seemed a long, long time ago and she was thirsty, but not thirsty enough to lick the rivulets of water that seeped down the rock walls.

A rock shifted, her sister squealed, and then clamped her mouth shut, panting. Veronica stopped moving.

After a very long moment, Shelby spoke. “Veronica?”

“Yes, sweetie?” Veronica whispered back.

“I tripped on a rock and caught my foot on my shoelace. We have to stop so I can retie it.”

“Do you have to?” Veronica asked, fretting about how close they still were to the thug and his partner. She had no idea how many meters apart they were anymore. It was impossible to tell without light to guide her. The thug and his partner were noisy enough, but sound carried so strangely underground. She and Shelby hadn’t traveled very far at all; having to creep forward blindly, slow careful footstep by footstep, one hand on the wall, the other hand grasping her sister’s, starting at every sound of a shifting pebble.

“I’ll trip again and hurt my foot. I think I can tie my shoe in the dark. My hands are so cold.” Shelby’s voice was hoarse from screaming, much worse than Veronica’s.

Veronica fretted about the narrow passageway coming up. They had to be almost there but she couldn’t remember anymore and without light, there was no way to tell until they crashed into it. Once they squirmed through the natural crevice, they’d be safe enough. The tall thug, with his broad shoulders, wouldn’t fit without being willing to leave plenty of skin on the tunnel walls. He wouldn’t know about the other side of the crevice and he wouldn’t seeing it coming in the dark.

This was as good a place as any to stop, rest, and warn Shelby what was coming up.

“All right. I’ll hold you so we can warm up a bit, let your hands warm up so you can work your fingers. Do you have anything to eat in your pockets?”

“No. I gave my last cracker to the sparrows I drew.”

Veronica thought of the fat PanU sparrows, fluttering around in the open air, safe and free, and envied them their crumbs. She swallowed a sigh, rather than make more noise.

“Well, they were the cutest sparrows I’ve ever seen. We’ll sit here.”

She sat down, pulling Shelby down with her and arranged themselves so Shelby was sitting in her lap and they were huddled as close as possible, conserving precious body heat. She kept away from the cold rock wall, trusting she could find it again easily and hoping she’d arranged herself and her sister so when they got moving again, they went forwards toward the narrow crevice instead of back toward the thug and Charlie. She felt for the rock wall, trying to memorize the uneven feel of the stone so she could find her way. The ground beneath them was clean, bare rock so she couldn’t make any kind of mark she’d find again with her fingers. Veronica did not tell her sister what she was doing. There was no reason to upset her still further.

“They really were cute,” her sister said, once they had settled themselves. “An advert with those sparrows would sell birdseed.” Shelby stopped and thought. “Do people really buy seeds just for birds? I mean besides in Barsoom?” Her voice shook, raspy and afraid.

Talking about sparrows would make a good distraction for Shelby, helping her to calm down before blindly crawling through the crevice into the pitch-black unknown that lay beyond it.

“They do in the private parks in Dome Six,” Veronica whispered back. “I bought some once from a little kiosk back when Dean and I were married and I was still allowed in. Those sparrows were even fatter than the ones at PanU.”

“Dean did this to you, to us,” Shelby whispered. “What a bastard.”

Veronica compressed her lips together. “I know. I trusted him. I trusted my own instincts and I was wrong. I can’t trust myself and I can’t trust what people say.”

“I think you can, if it’s the right person,” her sister replied, thinking of Malcolm Cobb revealing his background publicly and irrevocably at PanU. She would have never known he was a scholarship boy. He had chosen to trust her with something important.

“Don’t be naïve,” Veronica said harshly. “Think of Dean.”

“You’re being naïve this time,” Shelby growled back. “Dean was a golden boy for his family and everyone else in Panschin. He couldn’t lose. Everyone trusted him. He never risked a thing.”

“Until he did,” Veronica muttered. “He was weak. Just like dear old dad.”

“He sure was. You trusted him but he never earned your trust because he couldn’t lose no matter what he did. Other people aren’t like that. Malcolm’s not like that.”

“I hope Malcolm figures out what happened. He’s a miner as well as our banker. He might come down after us,” Veronica said.

“I know he will,” Shelby replied confidently. “Do you think Mr. Jones might come down too?”

Veronica stared off into the darkness. It was already starting to form shapes of black shifting against black. Shelby, warm against her, was real and she clung to her sister’s reality. “I don’t know. He didn’t expect to return to the White Elephant until evening. Everything will be over by then.”

She wanted to cry and blinked her salty tears away. She’d never see him again. Airik Jones had said her beads were made of star stuff. She’d never see a star again and now her beads were gone, in a vain hope of escape. However, Mr. Jones would not idly stand by when he returned to the White Elephant and found Dean in place, with the thug and his partner. Mr. Jones wanted privacy and quiet, he had paid for privacy and quiet, and he aimed to get it. He did not like Dean and wouldn’t believe anything he said. The thought was warming and welcome. Mr. Jones wouldn’t arrive alone either. He’d have his companions, especially his bodyguard, Nunzio. Mr. Jones would be safe enough and if he wasn’t, well, someone who had an entourage was guaranteed to have people who would come looking for him.

‘Who was Airik Jones?’ Veronica wondered. She still didn’t know. But at a minimum, she knew he was someone who would give Dean Kangjuon a world of trouble. Could she trust a man she knew nothing about? Unfortunately, he had no reason to come down into the tunnels under the White Elephant, unlike Mr. Cobb who openly fancied Shelby, who was responsible for their lease, and who was also familiar with Panschin’s underground ways.

“Veronica,” Shelby whispered. “I think I see something. Down from where we came.”

“Black shapes on a black background?” Veronica asked. “That’s your eyes playing tricks on you. Don’t trust them.” She was so tired, so very tired. Shelby, she knew, couldn’t be in better shape. They had to stay awake, until after they forced themselves through the crevice. They could rest, even sleep then safely. Hypothermia from the cold would become their main enemy, but there was nothing she could do about that other than huddle with Shelby.

“It’s like sitting at the bottom of a bottle of ink,” Shelby whispered back. “Even the air is thick. I thought I knew what black was, from all my painting.”

“Nothing is like the night underground,” Veronica replied. “Nothing. Ready to re-tie your shoe so we can keep moving?”

Shelby stretched against her sister and wiggled her fingers free. She had kept them clamped in her armpits to warm them while her sister held her tightly.

“Yes, I think so. Will the tunnel get narrower after this?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure when. It’ll get very low and tight, we’ll have to stoop, even crawl for a while, before we have to squirm through the crevice, but then the passage opens up and we can stand up straight. We’ll be safe.”

Veronica suddenly realized that she wasn’t hearing yelling and cursing anymore. She heard her very quiet conversation with Shelby. There was a sound, soft as if something was moving. What had happened to the thug and Charlie? Were they dead? Had they given up and gone back?

“Hey, Ronnie,” the thug said, his voice clear and close in the dark and a hand grabbed at her ankle. “Miss me?”

Veronica screamed in abject terror as did Shelby and they both started kicking madly at the hands clutching at their ankles and feet. He had found them.

*****

Malcolm and Airik moved swiftly down the passageway. There were patches of scree and sand here and there, showing signs of footsteps. The difficulty, as always, was it was impossible to tell how old the footmarks were. Change in the deepdown came with geologic slowness. Malcolm couldn’t help but notice how at his ease the daimyo of Shelleen was in maneuvering through the tunnel, stepping confidently and always avoiding the stalactites and other obstacles with a minimum of fuss. He hadn’t been lying about knowing his way around the deepdown.

They stopped regularly to listen. The yelling and screaming would start and stop, encouraging them to move faster, but not too fast. Moving too fast in the deepdown led to tripping and injuries.

The tunnel they were in widened, as Malcolm expected from the mine sign. As per someone’s long-ago chalk sketch, there were the two side passages, first one and then the second, farther away one, around the bend and out of sight.

Both men paced anxiously back and forth in the passageway between the tunnel openings, studying the ground, hoping to see some indication of where Veronica and Shelby had gone. Straight ahead? Or had they taken one of the side passageways? It was impossible to tell. The floor of the tunnel had returned to smooth rock, showing no signs of any one ever having been there before.

Malcolm frowned at his three choices. He thought over the mine sign indications of what lay ahead. All three corridors quickly became problematic for amateurs. Was Veronica leading the way? According to Neza, she did know something about the tunnels below the White Elephant, having explored them with Dean. But it had been some years since she had been down below and how much would she remember? How thoroughly had she and Dean explored? Neza had said Shelby rarely went below the first subbasement of the White Elephant. Shelby herself had admitted her trip to the Steelio warren was the first time she’d been lower down than the transtubes. Shelby wouldn’t know the first thing.

If Airik was correct in his assessment, the thug and his partner probably knew next to nothing about handling themselves underground. They would know even less about what lived below Panschin. Did Veronica know? She wasn’t part of the deepdown community so no one would tell her.

Veronica had to be in the lead, as the only person who had ever been below. Which passage would she choose? And what had Simon Bradwell been doing underground in the first place? That was puzzling in the extreme. There were easier ways to conceal bags of coin, particularly for an upper-class man with zero mining background.

“I’ve been considering if we should split up to search more quickly,” Airik said calmly. “That said, if we do, neither of us will be able to assist the other.”

Malcolm pondered how Veronica had managed to leave a sign for Airik to follow. He could not remember, but Airik would know. He’d obviously paid plenty of attention to Veronica Bradwell if he recognized her earbobs.

“Did Veronica wear other jewelry?”

Airik stilled, remembering his first conversation with her in the atrium of the White Elephant and how her sleek, dark hair lay against her neck and how beautiful her voice was. She had been bathed in the sunlight falling down through the roof opening, her prettiness completely at odds with the dreadful paintings hanging around the atrium. He would rescue Veronica or die trying.

“Yes. She did. A string of cloudy gray beads to match her earbobs. She may have used them to mark her trail.”

He knew he was correct as he spoke. Veronica Bradwell had sold every piece of jewelry she owned to make ends meet and she would willingly discard her last remaining piece if it meant a chance of saving her sister, just as she had discarded her earbobs. She knew he would understand the message she left for him. She knew him. She was trusting him, despite his lies to her about who he really was.

“Like breadcrumbs,” Malcolm said, hoping he’d recognize the beads against the rock as beads and not ignore them as damp pebbles. If Veronica dropped a bead here and a bead there, they’d be easy to miss.

“Yes. Let’s go down each passageway a short way and see if we spot them. The beads will stand out in the lantern light.”

The sound of whooshing came rolling down the tunnel like running water, filling it and then receding, leaving only echoes behind.

“Any idea what that sound was?” Airik asked as soon as it passed.

“No. I’ve never heard anything like that in Steelio’s tunnels.”

Then the screaming started again, more frightened and angrier, as though it came from multiple voices.

Airik immediately said, “first passageway. Look for her beads.” He set off down the tunnel, lantern high to check for glitter. Malcolm followed, moving quickly.

The screams died almost instantly as they worked their way down the first passageway.

“Wrong one,” Malcolm said. “We could hear them in the main tunnel and if they were in this one, we’d hear them clearly.”

“Agreed.”

Airik turned around and darted back up the passageway to where it had branched off, Malcolm right behind him.

Once back in the original tunnel, the sound of cries and screams resumed and then died away. Malcolm set a quicker pace to the second tunnel opening and within minutes, Airik spotted Veronica’s beads scattered about, along with a large patch of scree and sand, churned up by footsteps.

“Wait,” Airik said, holding up his hand. “Listen.”

“Doesn’t sound like the girls.”

“No. Someone’s very angry. Must be the thug and his partner.”

Malcolm’s mind raced. “The girls must have gotten away. If those two were still with Veronica and Shelby, they wouldn’t be cursing like that.”

“I agree. Was the mine sign clear enough that we could follow in the dark so they don’t know we’re coming?”

Malcolm thought carefully, reviewing the information he had memorized from the initial chalk drawing and the ones he had observed since then, tying the data in with what he’d actually experienced since climbing down the ladder in the shaft. “No, not at all. We’d be almost as bad off as them.”

“Damnation,” Airik said. “We can’t ambush them if they can see us coming. Wait.” He stopped and studied the tunnel ahead of them.

“Shouldn’t we be seeing some light seepage from their lanterns? They can’t be that far ahead of us.”

Malcolm stared past the edge of their lanterns’ pool of light into the solidly black tunnel.

“Yes, we should. If we’re this close, there should be at least a glimmer.”

Airik thought of Veronica and Shelby, trapped in the endless, terrifying night of the deepdown. Nothing, absolutely nothing in his experience was as suffocating as being underground without a light source.

“If their lanterns are broken,” he took refuge in analytical thought, “then the thugs will be disoriented. Our lanterns will betray us, but they’ll also be blinding to them. Can you get us back if we lose our lanterns?”

“Oh sure,” Malcolm replied confidently. “We go back the way we came. I’ve been keeping track of steps and turns. I wouldn’t like doing it in the dark, but I can.” He tapped his head. He’d been having to duck frequently to avoid stalactites.

“And they probably can’t,” Airik said. “They won’t know to track side passages and count steps like I have.” He caught Malcolm’s raised eyebrows. “Yes, I can get Veronica and Shelby back by myself if I have to. I’ve also been looking for signs of struggle and this is the first indication of trouble I’ve seen. Nothing on the tunnel walls other than what you’d expect, plus Panschin mine sign.”

“Let’s go,” Malcolm said and led the way further down the tunnel, the endless night in front of them retreating from their lanterns with every step. “If we’re quiet, they won’t hear us and they won’t be expecting us.”

They traveled down the tunnel, following its bends, hearing the sounds vanish as the tunnel widened, and then, thirty-six steps more (by Airik’s count) they clearly heard Veronica’s agonized scream followed by her sister’s. At the same time, he spotted the rest of Veronica’s beads, scattered everywhere as though they had been thrown wildly about. Each bead caught the lantern light, like glittering eyes in the dark, watching his every move.

Beyond the pool of lantern light lay the endless night under Panschin and not very far away up the tunnel lay the squeeze; where the passageway narrowed and the ceiling drew close and craggy, forcing anyone wanting to pass beyond to crawl and squirm through via the unyielding, uncaring rocky crevice.

By silent agreement, Airik and Malcolm stopped for a moment of planning.

“We’ll have to be careful,” Airik whispered. “I don’t want to harm either of the girls by accident.”

“We won’t have that much room and these guys won’t be afraid of hurting us,” Malcolm said. “Best bet is to take the thugs by surprise and smash their heads into the nearest rock surface until they stop moving.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Not in the deepdown, but I know the stories. Bar fights have way more room then we’ve got here and much better lighting. Got any weapons besides a pocket knife? We should have thought of this earlier.”

“No. I think a rock might be better here, in these close quarters anyway. I’d rather not slash Veronica or Shelby open by accident, or have my knife taken from me by one of them.” That was a distinct possibility. Airik regularly used a knife as a tool, but never as a weapon.

“Agreed,” Malcolm said. “Those guys are probably experienced street fighters. We’re not.”

“No. Fast, ruthless, and hard is our only option. We’ll attack their joints. No one fights on two broken knees.”

They moved slowly forward, keeping the lanterns lower so as to not betray their progress by the light spilling ahead of them. Then they saw the legs of a man, crouching, the front half of his body partially concealed by the sudden tightening of the rock walls and the bend in the tunnel. The light from the lanterns barely penetrated the opening of the squeeze, blocked as it was by the goon stooping as he worked his way through it.

“There,” Malcolm said. “They’re heading for the squeeze. It’ll get tighter for them fast.”

Airik allowed himself a wintry smile. “Easy.”

*****

Veronica screamed and screamed, kicking madly at the hands grabbing at her ankles in the dark. She knew she hit his clutching hands at least once, hearing the thug scream in pain and rage. She hoped she broke at least a finger or two, but his fury propelled him forward.

She broke free and sidled back into the suddenly tighter, lower passageway, roughly shoving Shelby behind her. Veronica had to hope she didn’t slam Shelby into the rock surrounding them, injuring her or breaking a bone.

Shelby kicked and kicked, hoping she wasn’t kicking her sister in the dark. She couldn’t tell from Veronica’s screams. She was afraid to use her own hands to push the thug’s unwanted ones away, afraid he would grab hold and never let go and she couldn’t tell if a hand was Veronica’s. She had no room to move around in; the rock walls encased her and Veronica. She scrabbled backwards, tearing her hands on the coarse rock under her body, trying hard not to hit her head on the stone surrounding her.

Despite all their care, they both smacked into each other and into the rock walls, trying to back up into the lower, tighter passageway. Veronica’s head rang when she caught her head on a rock outcropping and it tore open her scalp, letting blood trickle into her eyes and blinding her as much as the dark did. Only fear and adrenaline kept the pain from stopping her.

“You bitch,” the thug roared, his voice reverberating inside the tunnel. “You did this to me. I trusted you.”

Veronica screamed again – “get away from me” -- wanting to cover his booming voice with her own, deafening him since she couldn’t fight him effectively. She was getting so tired, only adrenaline and fear kept her moving.

“Light!” Shelby yelled. “I see light!” She screamed again, this time in fear as something grabbed at her legs.

Veronica’s hands were raw from scrabbling along the floor and she couldn’t clear her vision. Worse, Shelby was starting to hallucinate. There was no light, there was no one down here besides her, her sister, the thug, and Charlie. He had a hand clamped around her shin, and was slowly, slowly dragging her back towards him, despite her panicked attempts to escape. His hand was so strong, his fingers biting into her flesh. She kicked blindly with her free foot, praying she wasn’t kicking her sister. She couldn’t tell, from Shelby’s voice whether she was screaming because she was being hurt or because she was terrified.

Then she heard Charlie’s deeper, horrified shriek. It cut through the clamor, echoing and filling the tunnel like a physical force.

“Something’s grabbed me! It’s biting into me!” He screamed in mortal terror, the sound abruptly cut short into gurgles and whimpers.

“Charlie!” the thug called out in alarm. He let go of Veronica’s leg, allowing her to squirm backwards, shoving Shelby up the tunnel wall and farther away from him. The tunnel abruptly narrowed again and she slammed her shoulder into the rock, jarring her entire body into agony. She could see again. She saw stars of pain, filling her vision. The blackness inside the deepdown was better, crawling shapes of black on black.

Charlie screamed again in his panic, making Shelby scream even louder, her voice hoarse with terror. Then, suddenly, sharply, his voice cut off as though something had eaten him and finished swallowing.

*****

Airik and Malcolm, working as if they had one mind, grabbed the goon’s legs, yanking him back from the rapidly narrowing passageway. They had both picked up loose rocks and they used them, battering the thug’s body, not giving him a chance to speak, or fight back, or realize what was happening to him. They slammed rocks again and again into his knees, his hips, his ribs, his shoulders and elbows, and finally, his head, shutting off his screams like blowing out a candle. Only the echo remained, reverberating in the tunnel.

One down, but from his appearance not the one Airik remembered from the gallery showing. This must be the partner Neza mentioned.

Airik, in the remaining rational portion of his mind, marveled over how savagely violent he could become, using his own hands rather than ordering someone else to perform such a dehumanizing task. Slicing the throat of a deer he had hunted, bleeding it out, and then gutting it was nothing like this. But it had to be done and so he had. Malcolm Cobb had been no different.

But there was still the other man, the one even now lunging in the tunnel to fight back, despite being blinded by the sudden onslaught of the lantern light. This man wasn’t terrified of the deepdown. This man -- Airik recognized the thug from the gallery showing at the White Elephant -- was a professional. He had twisted around and his free hand showed a long knife, its razor-sharp blade gleaming in the lantern light. This man would fight to the death.

Airik didn’t want that death to be his, nor Malcolm’s. He especially didn’t want Veronica or Shelby to suffer because of his hesitation. No, this thug was the one who needed to stop breathing.

He grasped the rock, selected because it was well-shaped to fit his hand and slammed it into the thug’s shoulder, Malcolm coming in from the other side, hitting with another carefully chosen stone. The knife slash across his thigh burned. When had that happened? He staggered, stepped back, and remembered he had feet and wore boots with heavily reinforced toes. So, he used them, kicking at the thug’s legs, trying to knock him over, smashing him into the rock wall, so close that there was little room to maneuver and avoid it. All the while Airik had to avoid that vivid, gleaming knife blade slashing through the air. He lost his rock somewhere. The thug turned away from him, stabbing at Malcolm. Somewhere, Veronica was screaming, and he thought, Shelby too. Good. They were still alive. One of the lanterns got smashed, cutting the light in half.

Airik put his hand to his burning chest, the knife slash across it feeling like a line of fire, and felt his rock hammer, still tucked into its custom-made pocket in his fine wool suit, now ripped open across the front. He had forgotten it. It would work as a weapon. He wrenched it out and slammed it down as hard as he could across the thug’s spine, as the thug forced Malcolm down and into the unyielding, uncaring stone.

Airik knew very well the deepdown, like the steppes, always appreciated a blood meal. It never cared about the motives of who provided such a sacrifice. It was dangerous to offer too much. What lived below got greedy and the blood-spiller often suffered as much or more than the victim.

He took a precious second to aim before swinging again, trying for the base of the skull and the brain stem of his moving target. The thug’s shaved head made an easy target, catching what little light there was. His rock hammer connected again, not the point where it would do the most damage, but smashing where the neck joined the shoulder blades. The blow sent reverberations shooting up his own arm. His trusty rock hammer had not been designed to punch a neat hole through bone; it had been designed to shatter harder rock so it performed this minor task admirably.

The thug screamed, a wild, shaking, primal sound, and Malcolm wrenched himself free, punching upwards, and forced the thug into the wall, smashing his head into it, smearing blood across the rock, blood that shone almost black in the yellow light of the lantern.

The smell of blood was like copper and iron, and there were other, more dreadful odors suddenly filling the tight confines of the tunnel. The thug made wet, whining noises, slumping over as he collapsed. His body twitched.

Airik spared him a dispassionate glance. The thug wasn’t dead, but he would be soon enough without medical intervention and warmth. His partner wasn’t much better off. Other people, on the other hand, needed his attention far more. Veronica. Shelby. Malcolm. And, he supposed, he would benefit as well. His suit was in ruins, but the layers of fine wool had given him some protection. He didn’t know what protection Veronica had had, if this thug had used his knife on her.

*****

Veronica didn’t hesitate. As soon as the thug let go of her leg, she scrabbled back, smacking into her sister on one side and the rock wall on her other. The narrow crevice was coming up fast and only one of them could crawl through at a time. She had to get Shelby through first. She pushed and squirmed, forcing her sister to retreat, praying that Shelby wouldn’t hit her head on the rock wall.

“Veronica!” Shelby hissed. “Stop it. Stop it now.” She stopped dead, forcing her sister to stop as well or crawl over top of her in the dark.

“No! Get moving while they’re distracted,” Veronica snarled back. “Stop being difficult. They can’t get through the crevice and we can. Turn over and crawl through on your hands and knees. I’m right behind you.”

“No, Veronica,” Shelby snapped. “I see light!”

“You’re hallucinating, Shelby.”

“I am not. I think it’s Malcolm. Are your eyes even open?”

Veronica stopped moving and rested against her sister’s body, shaking with exhaustion. Were her eyes open? No, she had closed them to stop seeing black shapes squirming against the black surrounding them, and to keep the blood from the cut on her forehead from irritating her eyes even more. She was definitely hearing the sounds of a fight between someone, but probably not the thug and Charlie. The thug had more than enough sense to wait until he was back aboveground to discipline his partner.

“Shelby?” Veronica asked in a very small voice. “Do you really see light?”

“Yes,” Shelby hissed. “Open your eyes and look!”

“But Shelby,”

“Trust me.”

Veronica could feel Shelby twisting around behind her and then her sister wrapped her arms around her, holding her warm and snug, her breath a welcome summer breeze compared to the cold air surrounding them.

“I’ve got you,” Shelby murmured. “Trust me and open your eyes.”

Veronica let herself slump into her sister’s arms. She was so tired.

“All right,” she whispered and opened her eyes slowly. The blood that seeped down from her forehead cut stung and blurred her vision, but Shelby was correct. There was light, blinding light after being trapped in the darkness for so long. She could still see. There was light. She couldn’t see clearly, but there was light.

Then she heard a voice call out, a voice she recognized and had been afraid she would never hear again.

“Miss Bradwell? It’s Airik Jones. Mr. Cobb and I are here.”

“Shelby? It’s Malcolm. Are you all right? I came for you as soon as I could.”

Veronica was overwhelmed with emotion and this time, she let the salty tears leak out. She wasn’t surprised that Malcolm had climbed down into the tunnels for Shelby, but Airik Jones had come for her. He had no reason to at all, and an infinite number of reasons not to, but he had come down into the deepdown anyway. For her.

She let Airik help her wiggle back out of the crevice, back into the wider passageway, lit by a single lantern. She saw the thug and Charlie, sprawled out on the tunnel floor, roughly shoved out of the way and up against each other so she and Shelby could stumble around them. They were still breathing, groaning really, and her only thought was they had earned every minute of the pain they were enduring.

Veronica struggled to stand, a difficult task after being hunched over. Every muscle protested, and she ached all over. She started to shiver, then shuddered all over and couldn’t stop, her teeth chattering until her jaws hurt. Airik stripped off his ruined suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. It smelled of him and it was warm with his body heat.

She was able to notice that Malcolm did the same for her sister, wrapping her up in his own jacket, his arms around her.

“Miss Bradwell?”

Airik was speaking to her. She had to focus. She looked up at his concerned face, so welcome a sight. How could she have ever thought he was average looking.

“Yes?”

“Can you walk? We need to get you and your sister back up aboveground and get some medical care.”

Veronica smiled up at him. “Yes, of course.” There was a dark, seeping line across his chest where his fine, ivory shirt had been slashed open. “You need a doctor too, I think.”

“Yes, but it can wait. You and your sister first.”

“How did you find us?”

Airik smiled warmly at her. “I found your earbobs and then the beads from your necklace. The ones made of star stuff. You left signs for me to follow. You knew I would come for you.”

He wrapped his arms around Veronica and she fit perfectly against his body, as if she had been made for him.

Veronica stood shivering quietly, wrapped in Airik’s arms, deeply grateful he had chosen to take his chances in the deepdown for a near stranger. He believed she had discarded her beads for him, but thinking about it, who else would have noticed but Airik Jones? She had left a sign for him, even though she hadn’t realized it at the time.

“Ronnie,” the thug hissed up from the ground. She gasped and Airik tightened his arms around her.

“Ronnie,” the thug said, louder this time. His voice was thick and gurgling. “You’re leaving me. Give me a kiss before you go.”

Airik said “I will not allow you to further harass Miss Bradwell.”

Veronica stared at the thug, now laying on his side, staring up at her. His eyes glinted in the lantern light, his face otherwise hidden in the shadows.

“It’s all right, Mr. Jones,” she said. “I do have something I’d like to say to him.”

Airik let go of her and she forced herself to step closer to the thug, his eyes gleaming in the lantern light, a dark mirror of blood already forming beneath his head. She crouched down, keeping at arm’s length so he couldn’t reach her despite his injuries. One arm lay at an unnatural angle, as did both his legs.

“You were correct,” Veronica said. “Dean did not deserve me.”

He grinned up at her, his sharp teeth catching the light. His battered face was already starting to swell.

“You also do not deserve me. You do not deserve a kiss. And sweetheart,” she smiled sweetly at him. “I lied about finding my dad’s coin.”

He chuckled thickly, a sound like blood gurgling in his lungs.

“You got backbone, Ronnie. You’re made of nerve and fire.”

Airik stomped his foot down hard on the thug’s hand, inching towards his dropped knife, making him grunt.

“That’s quite enough,” he said.

“You,” the thug said, twisting his head with a grimace of pain to look Airik in the eye. “You don’t deserve her either.” He twisted away from Airik and stared back at Veronica, his face unreadable again, his eyes like chips of glass.

“I’ll let Miss Bradwell be the judge of that. Shall we go?”

“You lied about finding dear old dad’s money?” Shelby rasped. “You lied? That was stupid!” Despite her exhaustion and pain, she glared daggers at her sister.

“I had wondered,” Malcolm said. “It didn’t make any sense to me. That said, I agree with Airik. It’s time to go.”

Veronica giggled, near hysteria. “It was stupid and I don’t know what I was thinking.” She had to force herself to stop.

She stood up clumsily, letting Airik help her and leaned against him as they walked back up the tunnel, towards light and freedom and safety. She did not look back at the thug, slowly, slowly feeding the stone below him with his life’s blood. She did not know that he watched her until the light died when the lantern Malcolm carried disappeared up the tunnel and around the bend, returning the endless night back to the deepdown of Panschin.

She did hear him call out to her.

“Ronnie, Ronnie. No forgiveness.”

His voice faded as she walked away from him, with Airik Jones’ arm warm and protective around her.


	31. sun light, sun bright (burn away the darkness)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for now, you are safe.
> 
> OR: back to the White Elephant

The trip back through the tunnels was much faster for Veronica and Shelby, considerably slower for Airik and Malcolm. She wanted desperately to escape back above ground and never again enter the deepdown. She had to lean on Airik to keep from stumbling. He was surefooted, despite the open slash across his thigh and the second one low across his chest. Both knife cuts still seeped, the thigh wound more so. He favored that leg as he walked. Malcolm had sacrificed his linen shirt to tie up the leg wound, even while Shelby still wore his jacket.

Veronica fretted over using Airik as a crutch, although he didn’t seem to mind. She was bruised and hurting all over, but she hadn’t been slashed open the way he had been.

“Fortunately, the wounds are not that deep,” Airik replied to her concerns. “I didn’t get out of the way fast enough, and I was only saved because of my tailoring. I admit they hurt like hell and I will be very happy to see a doctor.”

“We were lucky,” Malcolm added. “All of us.” He had his own share of bruises, scrapes, and cuts, but none of them were as serious as what Airik had sustained. He’d be hurting for days as it was. They all would.

“Very lucky,” Airik said dryly. “He was aiming for my abdomen and missed.” The thug intended to gut him like a deer.

“I still can’t understand why you lied about finding a stash of dear old dad’s,” Shelby muttered.

“I guess I was hoping Dean would go down underneath with the thug and Charlie,” Veronica said. “Then we could escape. Or maybe, we’d go down, you and me, and we’d escape.”

Shelby glared at her sister. “Leaving auntie Neza behind with them?”

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Veronica retorted.

“I’ll say.”

“We are still not finished,” Airik said firmly, cutting off Veronica and Shelby’s incipient squabble. It reminded him of his cousins arguing over trivia and he thought it a good sign; they were recovering, at least a little. “The thug and Charlie have a boss somewhere out there in Panschin. Did the thug tell you his name?”

Veronica shuddered all over, pushing up into him. Airik savored her warmth next to him. He was understanding Veronica better and he guessed she had to tell him something unpleasant.

“I asked him, when we were at the bottom of the shaft and waiting for Shelby to climb down,” she said. “He told me to call him ‘sweetheart’.”

“Yeek,” Shelby gasped, wide-eyed. She made a gagging sound. “That’s awfully personal.” She snuggled closer to Malcolm, a very personal gesture considering his bare chest and one he found most agreeable and not just because he was cold.

“I know,” Veronica replied. “He was already planning on getting rid of Dean and forcing me to lie to the bank and the neighbors.” She shivered again, glad all over that Airik had come down the shaft into the tunnels with Malcolm.

Airik took that in; understanding at once all the ways the thug -- he would not call him ‘sweetheart’ -- would use Veronica, ways she obviously didn’t want to discuss with her sister. It forcibly reminded him of the bride trade with Dairapaska, a trauma imposed by his predecessor on the peasants of two demesnes. Despite the passage of years, cleaning up the repercussions from that transaction still occupied too much of his time.

“That is concerning,” he said, wanting to shift the conversation. “Not the getting rid of Dean part. I fully understand the urge. I’m concerned about the plans of the thug and his mystery boss. The boss is still out there. He may come back. Did either Charlie or the thug reveal anything to you that may clarify why they wanted the White Elephant?”

“Airik is correct,” Malcolm said. “We’re not done. None of this will make any sense until we figure out why they wanted the house so badly.”

“He wanted to run Panschin,” Veronica said slowly, “although I can’t imagine how someone like that could do so.” She then repeated what the thug had told her and what she had overheard him say to Charlie.

When Veronica finished, Airik said, “so they are from Barsoom. They’re under a lot of pressure to succeed. That’s a start.”

“But why would anyone from Barsoom want a house in Panschin so badly?” Veronica asked, struggling to form the words. Her throat was raw from screaming and Shelby sounded worse. “There are plenty of them in Dome Two. Dean could have signed a lease for any of them and no one would have suspected a thing.”

“There’s something we’re not seeing,” Malcolm said. “Dean might know.”

“This is also why we have to get back up quickly,” Airik added. “We all require medical attention but so do the thug and Charlie. They know why they needed the White Elephant but we still don’t. I am sure they can be persuaded to confess, but they have to be alive to do so.”

“Is that why you and Malcolm didn’t kill them?” Shelby asked.

Airik exchanged glances with Malcolm. “Yes.”

***** 

The light from the shaft seeping down and spilling out into the natural cavern provided a welcome beacon in the tunnel. At the base of the ladder, Airik insisted that Malcolm go up first, to ensure no threat lay waiting for them, then Veronica, then Shelby, and lastly himself to help them up and on their way.

“But your injuries,” Veronica protested. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

“I’ll be fine.” The wounds felt like lines of fire searing into him. His chest wound was starting to clot but fresh blood still seeped through Malcolm’s shirt, wrapped around the deeper slash on his leg. He would, he knew, carry the scars to his dying day. Fortunately, since the thug had missed disemboweling him, that day was still far in the future.

The trip back up through the basement levels was quick and uneventful. Anxiously waiting in the atrium were Neza, Nunzio, and Dean. Neza and Dean were both sitting down, in chairs brought from the dining room, but Dean was tied to his.

Neza levered herself out of her chair as soon as she spotted her nieces coming up the staircase from the lower level.

At the same time, the gate shrieked its warning, putting everyone on edge. Nunzio took charge of the door, throwing it wide after checking to see who was pounding up the front walkway to the front door.

It was Mrs. Grisson, excited and upset, trailed by several of her younger, fitter relatives, who were all struggling to get her to pay attention to her own safety and failing.

She didn’t hesitate. “Neza! What happened? My grandson finally got around to telling me he saw that goon our Shelby drew the picture of and he was with _Dean_! And another goon! The police are already on their way,” she poured out breathlessly. At that point, Mrs. Grisson finally noticed Dean tied to the chair and stopped to stare at him.

“So that worthless wretch _was_ involved.” She marched up to Dean and boxed him in the ear, rattling his head.

Neza smirked conspiratorially at Mrs. Grisson.

“How could you? Your mother will be so ashamed,” Mrs. Grisson said sternly, wagging her finger right in Dean’s face. She turned and waved her oldest son towards the stairwell. “Go search the house, top to bottom.”

Her oldest son frowned but dutifully went off on his errand, taking a brother-in-law with him. Like most of the neighbors, he had been inside the White Elephant frequently and was familiar with the layout.

“I don’t need to talk to you,” Dean said firmly. He shook his head to clear it, then shook it again, blinking repeatedly all the while.

“You do need to talk to _me_ ,” Veronica said even more firmly. “Why did you do this?”

“While they’re talking, sir, I’ve got to get you to a doctor,” Nunzio said. Despite his words, he wore the expression of someone doing his job, while knowing he was going to be ignored.

“It can wait, Nunzio,” Airik replied. “This is more important.”

“Be sure to tell the family when they ask that you said so,” Nunzio answered.

“Dean,” Veronica said. She crouched down next to him, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Who are those people? How did you meet them? And why do they need the White Elephant so badly? Houses go begging in Dome Two. You know that. Everyone knows that.”

“Where’s Tallon and Charlie?”

“If you mean the thug and his partner, they’re still in the tunnels,” Veronica said.

“They’ll need medical attention and quickly,” Airik said. He noted Dean’s flinch. “They’ll die of hypothermia if we don’t get them out. That is, if their injuries don’t kill them first.”

“Let them die,” Dean said wearily.

“No. We need to know who they are and what they’re doing,” Airik replied. “Dead men don’t answer questions.”

“Dean,” Veronica said again. “What happened.”

Dean groaned and shifted his weight in the chair. “I’m sorry, Ronnie. I am so sorry.”

He caught her irritated expression. “You’ll always be Ronnie to me, my own special nickname for you. I should have never left you. I should have never listened to my family. I should have never gone gambling with your father. I should have quit when I was ahead. I am so, so sorry.”

“I got that part, Dean,” Veronica said. “Do go on.”

“Your dad took me gambling. It was fun and I won. I won a lot. Then my luck changed. Everything fell down the shaft when I left you. I kept gambling but I ran out of money and no decent casino would let me in. I couldn’t pay my debts, you see,” Dean said.

She rolled her eyes. “Get to the point, Dean.”

“Then I met Tallon and his boss. I was looking for a place that would let me in and, maybe, win back what I’d lost. They run games out of hotel rooms in Dome Six. They move around a lot. I lost a lot of money to them and they said they’d kill me if I didn’t pay up.”

“Dean, you could have asked your parents,” Veronica said. “I’m sure they would have helped you.”

“Not anymore,” Dean said. “They cut me off a while back.” He looked away, ashamed, then sighed and continued. “They threatened to kill my parents. They would have too.”

“Anyway, I would overhear Tallon and the boss talking. They made me hide them in my flat so I couldn’t avoid them. They wanted a house as a basis for operations and I thought of the White Elephant.”

“That was stupid,” Malcolm said. “Houses in Dome Two go begging. You could have avoided all of this.”

“I know that, idiot,” Dean shot back. “I told them I could get them a house. They didn’t want any of them. What they wanted was a house that let them come and go unseen. They’re part of some group called Knights of Mars. They wanted to avoid some group in Panschin called Blue Sun. I don’t know who any of those people are but _they_ thought it was important.”

“Is it important?” Airik asked. There had only been enough time in the tunnel for Malcolm to give him the most cursory information on Blue Sun.

Veronica shrugged as did most of the eagerly listening group surrounding Dean.

Malcolm did not shrug, neither did Nunzio, nor did Mrs. Grisson, her sons and one of her boarders.

“I don’t know who Knights of Mars are,” Malcolm said. “Blue Sun is a criminal syndicate that runs gambling, protection rackets, drugs, prostitution, you name it, here in Panschin. They don’t like rivals.”

“All true, sir,” Nunzio offered. “Don’t know about Knights of Mars but they might be similar. Also, Dean’s sticking to what he confessed to me and Miss Molony.”

“This is all fascinating,” Airik said. “But why this particular house?”

“Yes, Dean,” Veronica said. “You used to love me, once. Why did you offer up my house to those horrible people?”

“Because of the tunnels,” Dean said. He smiled wistfully at Veronica. His handsomeness was obscured by bruises and swelling but some of his old charm still showed. “Remember when we explored them, you and me?”

“Yes, they never went anywhere and so we stopped.”

“You stopped because you got bored. I didn’t get bored. I love exploring, especially underground. I kept exploring the tunnels. There’s a narrow passageway you didn’t go through. If you wiggle through it, it connects to another set of tunnels and those tunnels have an exit inside an unused storage closet in the Panschin train station. We kept hearing that whooshing noise when we explored. Remember? I wanted to find its source and I did.”

“Was that the train?” Malcolm asked, as understanding dawned. “The underground tracks are that close?”

“Yes,” Dean replied. “The White Elephant has a direct connection to the train station.”

“So?” Veronica said. “So? The train station is open to everyone! So are the transtubes. Why would anyone want to crawl through the tunnels to get from there to here?”

“The train station and the transtubes are not open to smugglers,” Malcom said thoughtfully.

Airik shot him a look. “You believe a group like Blue Sun doesn’t smuggle contraband?”

“I’m sure they do,” Malcolm replied. “But I’m equally sure they won’t tolerate sharing turf with some gang from Barsoom.”

Airik considered this. “A tunnel connection would allow Knights of Mars, whoever they are, concealed access. They would arrive at the train station and disappear into Panschin.”

“That was the idea,” Dean said tiredly. “I never found another upshaft like the one that connects to the White Elephant and I looked. I’m so sorry, Ronnie.”

“You should be,” Veronica said. “That thug. He was awful.” She shuddered, moving closer to Airik. Some portion of her brain noticed how easy that had become and how it didn’t bother Airik Jones at all.

Dean noticed too, briefly closing his eyes in pain over what he had thrown away.

“The way you stood up to Tallon fascinated him. He couldn’t stop talking about you after the gallery show. What he wanted from you. What he would do to you. I couldn’t warn you. I didn’t dare. All I could do,” Dean stopped, looking more ashamed than ever. “All I could do was make you angry so you would say no.”

Veronica gaped at him. “That was stupid!”

It was easier to focus on what a fool Dean had been than to think about the plans the thug had for her. Tallon was a good name for him. She hadn’t been wrong to fear him.

“I know.” Dean roused himself. “You’re smarter than I am. I hoped you would think of something because I couldn’t. I was in so far over my head I couldn’t do anything right.”

“You just made it worse!”

“Yeah.” Dean looked away again, staring at one of Professor Vitebskin’s more dreadful paintings rather than see her face or Airik Jones hovering protectively behind her. “Tallon enjoyed beating me up. He was furious about seeing me at the gallery showing.”

“That’s why you ran like a rabbit,” Nunzio said. “I wondered what set you off.”

“I saw him and the boss. I had to get out of there.”

“Does this boss have a name?” Airik asked.

“Not that I ever heard. They always called him ‘boss’.”

Dean slumped back in his chair. “I screwed up. Ronnie, I am so sorry.” Tears leaked from his eyes, leaving tracks in the dirt smudging his face. “We were happy once. Tallon was right, the bastard. I didn’t deserve you.”

“The police will be here soon,” Veronica said. “They’ll want to know everything.”

“I’ll tell them. I’ve already lost everything that matters, Ronnie, starting with you.” Dean chuckled weakly. “I’ll go underground again, but it will be in the Dirac mines.”

Malcolm had been thinking hard. This new information about Knights of Mars, whoever they were, was critical and he knew who would appreciate it enough to hunt down the missing boss without wasting any time on debates. They wouldn’t be concerned about legal niceties either.

“Veronica, Shelby, I don’t want to, but I have to leave you here. The boss is still a threat but I can do something about him now,” he said. “I’ll check back periodically to make sure you’re safe.”

“Everyone will be staying with me, not here,” Mrs. Grisson announced. “With me and my sons and sons-in-law and boarders. Over to my place, where no one knows.”

“You have to go?” Shelby rasped, clinging to his arm and looking up at him, wide-eyed. She looked suddenly puzzled and added “But why did you come over at this time of day, Malcolm? I’m so grateful, but I didn’t expect to see you until the end of the day at PanU.” She shuddered, thinking of what could have happened.

“I needed to talk to your aunt Neza about Simon Bradwell and Mr. Burgess,” Malcolm answered, very gently combing his fingers through her tangled hair.

“What?” Neza said, startled. She had been listening carefully as well, when not whispering to Mrs. Grisson, confirming what Dean had confessed earlier.

“Did they socialize? Were they ever together outside of a business setting? I’m following a seam of information. If I can prove a connection, I can keep Burgess from evicting you,” Malcolm said.

“I have no idea, particularly since I never met the man before,” Neza said. “Simon didn’t often come to Dome Two. He thought it was beneath him and we didn’t get along. Burgess strikes me as the same sort.”

Veronica nodded in agreement, as did Shelby.

“Sajag Burgess wants to evict you?” Dean asked curiously.

Veronica laughed weakly. “Yes, he does. It seems so unimportant now after nearly dying in the tunnels.”

Dean smiled wistfully again at Veronica. “I can help you, Ronnie. I told you your dad took me gambling. Posh, high-end casinos in Dome Six. Classy places. Only the best people go there.”

“Yes, you did, but I don’t see why that matters,” Veronica said.

“His favorite gambling partner was Sajag Burgess.”

All eyes turned back to Dean.

“What?” said Veronica and Shelby in one voice.

“Are you sure?” came from Airik.

“The connection I need,” Malcolm said, his face lighting up.

“Nothing surprises me about your worthless father anymore,” Neza said, tight-lipped with disapproval.

Mrs. Grisson tsked loudly and repeatedly.

“He was so lucky at the tables,” Dean said. “That’s why Sajag wears those exaggerated fashions. He thinks it makes him luckier and I suppose it does. He never lost when I gambled with them.” Dean frowned and added, more softly, “he pretends he doesn’t know me anymore.”

Malcolm stared at Dean. His mind raced, recalling details from the case studies that had never been fully explained. Among other things, the casino where Simon Bradwell gambled away his clients’ money insisted that the initials SB in their records always meant him and no one else.

“Was there anyone else Simon Bradwell gambled with regularly who you know of,” Malcolm asked carefully. He would have to find corroborative evidence and one of those people might be willing to talk to him.

“Peng McGrant,” Dean replied promptly. “He was a lucky gambler too. He bragged all the time about how he’d won enough at the tables to let his family buy into Chung/Banerjee. He never scored as big again, but he still did alright. He won’t talk to me anymore either.”

“Anyone else?” Malcolm said. “I’ll need a list.”

“I would be interested as well,” Airik said. “I don’t, I mean my firm doesn’t like doing business with gamblers. They are not reliable.”

“Dean. Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Veronica asked. Peng McGrant! Maybe they wouldn’t be sued by the McGrant family over Kip’s surface sickness. The McGrant family wouldn’t want to admit that the senior member of the family went gambling with the notorious Simon Bradwell.

He sighed again. “I knew how you felt about gambling and it didn’t seem important. What did it matter who your father met over the tables? He’s been dead for years.”

The gate shrieked again, followed by a herd of footsteps on the gravel walkway.

“That’ll be the police,” Mrs. Grisson said importantly. “And about time too. I sent my grandson begging for help when I headed over here.” She had been listening avidly to Dean’s story, storing every detail to rehash later on with Neza and everyone else living in Dome Two. She’d dine out for months on this story.

“It matters now,” Veronica said. “Please, Dean.”

“Anything for you, Ronnie. I owe it to you.”

Someone pounded on the door.

“Open up! This is the police.”

“I’ll get it,” Nunzio said. “Might as well do something useful around here.”

*****

It took some time for Malcolm to extricate himself from the police squadron that invaded the White Elephant. Mrs. Grisson had gotten action from them in a way that neither he nor Mr. Wong had managed. He would have to figure out how much power she wielded in the neighborhood, since it was apparently quite a lot. She might be willing to discuss her small-scale farming business as a way of jumpstarting more economic activity in Dome Two, if he approached her properly. However, that task would have to wait.

Interviewed and patched up by the police surgeon’s team of medics and wearing a shirt borrowed from Nunzio, he ran back to the Dome Two branch of Second National. He had had time to think while the medic dressed his wounds (Veronica had insisted that Airik be treated by the police surgeon himself who concurred with her assessment) while Dean ratted out the thug and Charlie to the police. He worked out his order of approach carefully; when not listening to Dean and while doing his damnedest not to flinch in front of Shelby when his own wounds were dressed.

Mr. Wong came first. If he was judging Mr. Wong correctly, he was a valuable ally who despised Burgess and deemed the concerns of Second National’s clients to be more important than what headquarters wanted them to be. If he was wrong, he could beg the daimyo of Shelleen to let him, the Bradwells, and his own family go into exile in Shelleen. Swearing fealty to a demesne, distasteful as that would be, would be far better than seeing everyone he loved end up in the Dirac mines alongside Dean Kangjuon.

That included Shelby. He was falling in love with her. Having to go into the deepdown to save her and her sister crystallized his emotions. She might not feel the same way, although he had hopes she did, but that didn’t matter at all. She was safe and he wanted to keep her safe. He still felt her goodbye kisses on his lips.

Malcolm darted into the lobby, getting the attention of not just the customers but the goggling staff. He looked rough; bruised, filthy, and wearing Nunzio’s oddly cut shirt rather than the tailored suit the staff was used to seeing. He didn’t hesitate at Mr. Wong’s office door and barged right in.

“Mr. Wong.”

Mr. Wong cut him off. “Don’t barge into my office, Cobb. That’s why I have a door.”

“Mr. Wong? Listen.” Malcolm dove into what had happened and what he needed. As he had hoped, once he got started, Mr. Wong sat back down, waved away the security guard who had arrived at his door, and his eyes lit up.

“So. Burgess indulges in high-stakes gambling and he did it with Simon Bradwell,” Mr. Wong said after a long, thoughtful silence spent focusing on what mattered to him the most. “I’m sure he cheats.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Malcolm said.

Mr. Wong gave him a pitying look. “No one wins long-term in a casino without cheating. The odds favor the house by immense margins. What is your next move?”

“I’ll need to use the branch’s skynet connection. I must speak with the following people in a hurry, to forestall Burgess’s next move.” Malcolm rattled off a list of names, starting with the head of Steelio.

As he did so, he watched Mr. Wong, nodding approval at the various executives at Second National (all of whom he knew) and looking thoughtful at Steelio.

“Good thinking, Cobb. You’re taking full advantage of our filing cabinets of data. I assume you’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day?”

“Yes, Mr. Wong. I’m not sure about tomorrow.”

“Keep me posted and do not slam my door on the way out. When you return, be properly dressed. Do the same for any meetings you manage to arrange with the other Second National executives.”

Malcolm wanted to roll his eyes, but restrained himself. Mr. Wong was correct. He could not give them a reason to ignore him, a jumped-up tunnel rat.

“Yes, Mr. Wong.”

He was halfway to the door when Mr. Wong said, “Cobb? I have a few contacts at First National and at Mercantile and Commerce. I’ll have a name or two for you when you return.”

Malcolm turned and said, “Thank you, Mr. Wong.”

Mr. Wong smiled icily. “I want to see Burgess sifting tailings on his knees to his dying day.”

“He will, sir. In the Dirac mines.”

“Oh, and Cobb?”

“Yes, Mr. Wong?” Malcolm said, clamping his mouth shut so he didn’t tell Mr. Wong to stop wasting his time by dragging out the conversation.

“Miss Molony and the Bradwell sisters will be safe?”

“Yes, Mr. Wong. The police are there now and this time, they won’t be too busy to ignore the situation.”

“Very good. Our clients come first. I shall commend Mrs. Grisson when I see her next.”

“Do you know her?”

Mr. Wong gave Malcolm another pitying look. “I know everyone important in Dome Two.”

*****

During _his_ interview, Airik summarized the events to the desk sergeant rapidly, completely, and in perfect order. He then demanded that the police go down into the tunnels to find Tallon and Charlie, a demand echoed by Malcolm, before he left on errands of his own.

The desk sergeant (Mrs. Grisson had insisted via her grandson he come in person and she got her way), even as he listened and took notes, kept wondering who this man was who needed a bodyguard. This visitor to Panschin _ordered_ him about as though he regularly expected and got prompt obedience and all while having the bloody slash across his chest and the other one on his leg cleaned and stitched closed by the police surgeon. It had to hurt like hell, yet this man didn’t seem to notice, other than to hold Veronica Bradwell’s hand, squeezing her fingers with each stab of the needle through his flesh and exhaling after each stitch.

Arrangements were made for a crew to descend into the tunnels under the White Elephant and render first aid to Tallon and Charlie. They would then wait in the cavern for the rescue and recovery team. That team would bring the more specialized gear needed to haul someone strapped into a spinal board up a long, narrow shaft.

Airik waited impatiently for news while the police surgeon did his work, cleaning his wounds and then securing them, stitch by careful stitch. He was grateful that Veronica did not flee so as to avoid the unpleasantness of field surgery. She had insisted that he be treated first and the police surgeon concurred, over his own objections that she and her sister be attended to by the surgeon and not the medic.

He would have preferred that Shelby vanish but she had grabbed a sketchbook, placed herself where she could observe without being in the way, and was drawing the procedure, whispering all the while (her throat was raw from screaming) about verisimilitude and how the anatomy textbooks she had used at PanU didn’t show how bloody it all was. It was nice to know she was recovering from her ordeal but he could have done without her monologue on his musculature. It was a shame Malcolm had left so promptly after his own interview and medical treatment; he would have kept Shelby occupied sketching his bare chest.

To his chagrin, Veronica was disinterested in his appearance. At any rate, she didn’t stare the way her sister did.

Dean kept talking and talking and talking, keeping his eyes carefully averted from his own medical care. He chose to focus on one of Professor Vitebskin’s paintings as added punishment. The police stenographer took rapid notes, barely keeping up with questions and answers.

*****

Veronica held Airik’s hand throughout his stitching up. He squeezed her fingers tighter than the thug ever had, down underneath the White Elephant, but she didn’t mind. Airik Jones had come for her. She still was having trouble processing the fact that he did, rather than fetching the police and avoiding all the trouble. Working out his possible rationale gave her something to think about rather than Airik’s nearly nude body stretched out before her on her dining room table.

The police surgeon had cut away the remains of Airik’s pants and shirt, revealing something other than what Veronica expected from the baggy coveralls she had seen Airik wearing. The coverall had not covered up a multitude of sins as they usually did. Airik Jones once again wasn’t average. He was _very_ fit, well-muscled and well-proportioned, and _very_ distracting.

“You could have thrown Dean over a higher wall, Mr. Jones,” she said to him quietly and was rewarded with a tight smile.

“I like to give myself maneuvering room in case of error.” ‘Damnation,’ Airik thought. He’d become ‘Mr. Jones’ again after the pleasure of hearing Veronica say his name.

“You gave yourself a huge margin, I think,” Veronica said and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.” With her free hand, she brushed away a lock of hair from his forehead.

“Well, I did have to allow for Dean fighting back. He was an unknown quantity.”

“True.” She gazed down at him, keeping her eyes carefully on his face, above his broad shoulders and off the crisp curls of hair on his chest, and he relaxed into the warmth of her smile. The pain was suddenly easier to bear.

The police surgeon was putting in the last few stitches when his medic came racing back up the stairs from the second subbasement hatch.

“Sergeant,” the medic said, coming to a panting halt in front of the desk sergeant. “They’re dead.”

“Damnation,” Airik said. “I wanted them brought up alive for questioning.”

“Oh, you did,” the sergeant said. “That’s not your decision to make.” Who the hell did this guy think he was?

“Nonetheless,” Airik retorted. “The rescue team should have been sent down faster.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” the medic said. Who the hell was this guy? “They’ve been dead for a while. I’d estimate since well before we climbed down the shaft and found them. They’ll have to be hauled into the morgue so the surgeon can get a more accurate time of death.”

“Exposure?” asked the desk sergeant. “Or their injuries?”

“Hypothermia?” Airik asked at the same time. “Or their injuries?”

The medic shot him a look, exchanged glances with the surgeon, and focused on their boss, the desk sergeant.

“Neither. The bald one cut the other thug’s throat and then cut his own.”

“In the pitch-black dark of the deepdown?” the police sergeant asked, appalled. “He did it by feeling his way around?”

“Looks that way. He did a messy job. They bled out. Blood everywhere.”

Dean had been listening, hunched over with pain and renewed fear.

“That sounds like Tallon,” he muttered. “I don’t think his boss tolerates failure. Charlie wouldn’t have had the guts.”

“Indeed,” Airik said. He thought of what Veronica had repeated to him from overhearing Tallon and Charlie in the tunnels.

Veronica squeezed his hand, looking ill. “Lordy. Murdering his partner and dying by his own hand was better than failing. Lordy.”

“I’d agree. His doing so ensured neither of those two could be questioned,” Airik said. He glanced over at Dean, who was looking nauseous.

“Sergeant?”

“Yes, Mr. Jones?” the desk sergeant replied warily.

“Keep Mr. Kangjuon under guard. He’s our only source of information unless and until you are able to find and arrest their mystery boss.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me how to do my job?” the desk sergeant asked in annoyance.

Airik watched him steadily while the surgeon bandaged up his stitches. “Are you going to? If not, I will make the arrangements myself.”

“I’ll be taking care of Kangjuon personally,” the desk sergeant said icily. “Since this potentially involves Blue Sun, I don’t want any mistakes. And who the hell are you again, anyway?”

“I told you yesterday, Sergeant,” Nunzio said, answering for the daimyo of Shelleen. “He’s Airik Jones of Barsoom. Distant relative of Miss Molony and Miss Bradwell.”

“So you said. And why weren’t _you_ down there, rescuing Miss Bradwell and her sister?” the desk sergeant snapped. “You put your employer at risk.”

Airik waded back in. “I needed Nunzio to take charge of the house, watch Dean, keep everyone else out, and make sure Miss Molony was kept safe. I had no way of knowing if the boss would come to the White Elephant or if he would have brought more armed men. Nor did I have time to waste.”

“Lordy,” Veronica snapped. “You two arguing is a waste of time. Sergeant, I know you’ll make sure Dean is guarded. Have you sent anyone to Dean’s flat to see if the boss is still hiding there?”

“Already done, Miss Bradwell.”

‘Competence at last,’ Airik thought but chose not to say so aloud. He also did not say ‘Where the hell were the police earlier?’

“He might not be there,” Dean fretted. “He moved around a lot, exploring Panschin. He said he was looking for hotel rooms to use temporarily.”

“We’ll find him,” the desk sergeant said confidently.

“I certainly hope so,” Neza said tartly. “That man will murder us in our beds if you don’t. He knows where we live.”

Mrs. Grisson patted Neza’s hand reassuringly and whispered to her.

Veronica bit her lip, thinking, and unconsciously squeezed Airik’s hand again. She didn’t want to let go. Mr. Jones would leave at the end of the Biennial Mining Conference. He’d go back to Barsoom. Who would be here if Tallon’s boss showed up? If Tallon was afraid of failing his boss, then she needed to be as well. She let her eyes range around the White Elephant’s dining room and fell upon Shelby, busily capturing the members of the police squadron, herself, Airik stretched out on the dining room table undergoing field surgery, Dean tied to a chair.

Dean. Shelby had sketched Dean while he was cleaned up and treated. Dean knew what Tallon’s boss looked like. So far, all they had was the image Shelby had drawn from Elliot’s description. Dean could fill in the details and then the police would have a better chance of spotting Tallon’s boss in the crowd.

“Sergeant? Shelby? Dean?” Veronica got their attention and got them started. It was something she could do to keep her little family safe and, if she was lucky, the police would find Tallon’s boss before Airik Jones left Panschin and left her.

*****

Nunzio quietly watched the proceedings from his post along the wall. The family wouldn’t believe what Airik had done. Despite selecting him as the daimyo, they underestimated him every day. What would they say to this? Airik wouldn’t brag to them, but he wouldn’t be able to hide the scars he would carry until his dying day.

It was especially interesting watching Airik with Miss Bradwell. It was apparent she liked him, but since she didn’t know who he was, she liked him because she liked him. His position in life didn’t color her view.

Nunzio had been assigned to Airik since he had been chosen as the daimyo. He’d gotten to know his boss better, he believed, than most of the family. He’d never seen Airik act this way with any woman. Airik fancied Veronica Bradwell. Airik fancied her enough to go underground and rescue her at great risk to his own life.

His daimyo had to marry for the good of the demesne. It was a pity he could not marry Veronica Bradwell. She’d be good for him. Instead, Airik Shelleen would have to make a political match. Whoever the family chose, and they had infinitely more options than they had had in the past, the young lady wouldn’t make him laugh the way Miss Bradwell did. Too bad the family would never accept her. Elliot had filled him in about the research project he was doing on Simon Bradwell. Miss Bradwell was a pariah.

Nunzio thought of his own wife and little daughter, waiting at home for him in Shelleen. He’d have a happy homecoming, but Airik wouldn’t. Airik would slave for the good of the demesne for his entire life yet never have a chance at the joy he, Nunzio, got every day with his own wife and daughter. All those ladies of the Four Hundred saw a gold mine and a stepping stone to power and not a man.

The police surgeon had finished his work – very neat stitching too in Nunzio’s professional opinion – yet Airik didn’t show any signs of leaping up and getting back to the round of meetings waiting for him. He wanted to remain in the dining room of the White Elephant and hold Miss Bradwell’s hand. Nunzio sighed inwardly.

“My lord? I mean, sir? Airik?”

The desk sergeant shot a glance at Nunzio and then at the police surgeon. ‘My lord’. Who the hell was this guy?

“Yes, Nunzio?”

“We need to get back. You got that conference with Chung/Banerjee and we’re already late.”

Airik frowned. Nunzio was correct. The needs of Shelleen rose up before him. He would have to leave Veronica. He would come back that evening and for the next few evenings and then leave for Shelleen when the conference was over.

What would happen to her when he left? He didn’t want to leave her, Airik realized. But Veronica Bradwell would never leave her home and her family in Panschin while he could never walk away from his responsibility to Shelleen. Honor and duty made their own demands.

She was watching him steadily. He could not decipher her expression.

“Nunzio is correct. I must go.”

“Will you be back this evening?”

“Yes.” Airik smiled up at her, memorizing her face. “I’ll need Mrs. Grisson’s address in case you aren’t here.” She smiled at him again as he spoke.

“Of course.”

He thought of his hurried conversation with Malcolm Cobb. If Malcolm came through on his promise, at least he could leave her that small gift.

“I’ll be back every evening, until the conference ends.”

“I would like that.”

He wished she would kiss him like Shelby had kissed Malcolm when he left. But she wouldn’t; he was a virtual stranger to Veronica Bradwell and soon he would leave Panschin and leave her. As a gentleman, he certainly couldn’t embrace her. What if she didn’t want him to?

From their own vantage point, Neza and Mrs. Grisson watched intently and sadly. The conclusion was foregone and there was nothing they or anyone could do about it.


	32. Malcolm gets started with Mr. Burgess

Malcom resented every minute he had to spend in his boarding house quarters getting cleaned up and dressed to meet his carefully selected senior executives. It did, however, give him time to think over how to approach them, seeking allies against Mr. Burgess.

If the information he had read in the filing cabinets still held true, this small group despised Sajag Burgess. None of them had openly moved against their enemy but that could change with the information Malcolm had unearthed, along with knowing that Burgess openly consorted in casinos with Simon Bradwell.

Mr. Steelio had also made time for him, later in the day, after he had met with the daimyo of Shelleen. As soon as Mr. Steelio’s secretary proudly told him of the potentially lucrative meeting, Malcolm made the snap decision. He would not reveal he knew Airik. He would not use the daimyo of Shelleen to better himself. That also meant he couldn’t say there was the distinct possibility the daimyo of Shelleen would be late for his meeting.

In addition, Mr. Steelio agreed to send a message along to Jeffen. He, however, would not be available until the end of his shift. Malcolm had thought carefully over whether or not to reveal _why_ he needed to speak to Jeffen so badly. In the end, Malcolm decided not to. Jeffen was a low-level member of Blue Sun and he wouldn’t be doing Jeffen any favors by revealing to Steelio his employee’s divided loyalty.

It was frustrating to have to wait. He needed to speak with Jeffen _first_ , before anyone else, since Tallon’s boss could get wind of what was happening and flee Panschin. The police were searching for him, but Blue Sun had a long reach into areas where the police rarely went. They were just as likely to succeed and wouldn’t fret over legalities such as jurisdiction.

The operation against Burgess would take far more time, but Burgess himself couldn’t move quickly to evict the Bradwells. Legal proceedings took time and had to be done according to bank procedures. Burgess could try, but he wasn’t the mustache-twirling villain in a melodrama. There were rules.

There was still the interesting question of why Burgess had reacted so strongly to his discovery of who Veronica Bradwell was related to. There might be other pressures forcing his hand, causing Burgess to be less cautious. Perhaps, Malcolm thought, Burgess did not have the security within Second National’s hierarchy he himself had always believed. If so, his potential allies were waiting for the right moment to light the fuse.

He smiled at his reflection in the cracked mirror, his image split in two like always. These executives would owe a jumped-up tunnel rat even if they wouldn’t admit it.

*****

The meetings with the Second National group of executives went very well, putting Malcolm into a better frame of mind over leaving Shelby behind at the White Elephant. He had guessed correctly. They had been waiting for the right moment, the right information, to force the issue with the board and he had given them what they had been waiting for.

Burgess would end up on his knees in short order.

They would not, of course, keep a lowly assistant manager and scholarship boy in the decision-making loop. Oh no. Malcolm had to smile at that piece of foolishness. Did none of them truly understand how he had discovered the files?

They would document their actions and copies would be duly filed in the basement catacombs of his own branch office in Dome Two, where he could read them at his leisure. This foolishness also indicated that, despite their supposedly better breeding, education, and upbringing, he could out-think them.

Sitting in the transtube, heading to Steelio’s office, Malcolm allowed himself one of his favorite daydreams: the one where he became the President and Chairman of the Board of the Second National Bank of Panschin. He could dig rings around this kind of competition.

His background as a scholarship boy would get in the way. There was nothing he could do to fix the situation, other than demonstrate impeccable competence. Hellation, even normal competence might be enough, considering his competition’s lack.

There was also Shelby Bradwell to consider. He was falling in love with her. He thought she might feel the same way about him, based on what she said and did. Her kisses were so sweet. She had whispered to him, as he said his goodbyes, that she wanted to see him again. She was his dream girl and better, she, despite her worthless, embezzling father, belonged to the class he aspired to join. But would Shelby’s background handicap him in his rise to the very top of the Panschin banking hierarchy?

She was so beautiful, so talented, so caring, so special. She saw him as a man and she understood something of the pressure he was under. She accepted his family. Yet, the people who didn’t despise him because of his own background would despise him because of her father, Simon Bradwell.

Shelby was a liability. She knew it herself. She had told him so, rather than see him damaged on his own rise to the top. She trusted him enough to be honest, just as he had been honest with her about his own background.

She had been worth the risk, then.

He considered her carefully, as the transtube rolled through the tunnel, connecting the domes above with the tunnel world below. She inflamed his senses. He couldn’t think logically around her. He wanted her. He could only think clearly when she was at the other end of Panschin, not sitting next to him, warm and sweet and touchable, the scent of her hair filling his nostrils, the heat from her body stimulating his own body.

She was a liability.

However, he was a liability to her. She might be able to rise above what her father did to her, but not with a scholarship boy. She needed a man from the upper classes whose family could help paper over her own status as a pariah.

Together though, together did their liabilities cancel each other out? Or did they magnify them? Was Shelby worth the risk to his career? Was he worth the risk to hers? She had talent, real talent, of a kind he had never observed in his life. He vividly recalled the paintings at the Panschin Museum of Art, as well as the best magazine illustrations, and compared them to what he had seen at the gallery showing of the PanU Artists’ Collective. Her work could, with time and effort, easily sell to magazines and advertisers. They had to make money and so were a more discriminating market than art collectors. Her work could even, possibly, rise to the level of the art museum, unlike the dross currently desecrating the White Elephant.

He could not help her in that world the way a scion of an upper-class family could; a scion like Kip McGrant.

Shelby worked at her drawings. They _mattered_ to her. He thought of how traumatized Shelby had been, dragged underneath the White Elephant by Tallon and Charlie. She had wept and shook when he held her after the fight underneath in the deepdown, after he and Airik had defeated those goons.

As upset as she was, she had pulled herself together for the long journey back. And when they had finally made it through the tunnels, climbed back up the narrow shaft, and arrived in the atrium of White Elephant, she picked up her sketchbook and began drawing what had happened.

She was so brave, so talented, so focused.

Would she be better off with that mazhor, Kip? The McGrant family was rich and well-connected.

The thought of Shelby with some other man (especially one like Kip) made him nauseous, jealous, resentful, but most of all, bereft and ungrateful for the gift he had been offered by what lived below in the deepdown.

Malcolm leaned against the backrest of the seat, oblivious to the other passengers, all with lives and fears and hopes of their own. He let the decision come to him of its own accord.

She was his Dome Two princess and he would fight for her. He would risk his career for her. He had to let her make her choice but he could stack the deck in his favor by being the best choice she could make. He had already started the process whereby Sajag Burgess would no longer be a threat. Speaking to Mr. Steelio would enhance that process as well as lead him to a better social standing of his own. And after that, he would do a favor for Blue Sun by telling them about a threat they knew nothing about. As long as he was discreet and kept his own hands clean, he could avoid blowback from dealing with Blue Sun.

He didn’t want to become the President and Chairman of the Board of the Second National Bank of Panschin if he had to do it without her. His victory would be worthless if he couldn’t share it with Shelby Bradwell.

*****

The meeting with Mr. Steelio was brief and positive. Malcolm came out of it with a list of suggestions and letters of introduction to other possible sources of information, all leading to Burgess’s destruction. He also came out of the meeting knowing he should have spoken with Mr. Steelio earlier. There was, it turned out, a network of scholarship boys who helped each other in navigating the rituals of upper-class Panschin society. He had to ask to be invited because they would not come to him.

Jeffen came next. There was always the risk that Blue Sun would want more from him, but it was a risk Malcolm had to take to keep Shelby and her sister safe. He’d have to keep his hands scrupulously clean. He wondered if he should ask about Sajag Burgess or should he let his new allies in the executive suite in Second National take care of that task for him. He couldn’t decide and, in the end, decided to see where the conversation with Jeffen led him.

Then, after he finished with Jeffen, he would speak to the shaman. Malcolm carefully stored away his concerns so they would not distract him when dealing with a representative of Blue Sun, even one as low in the hierarchy as Jeffen. Blood in the tunnels was one thing. Everyone spilled a little, with cuts and scrapes. They were an unavoidable hazard of working in the deepdown. This lake of blood, violently spilled and ending in death, was something else altogether.

He frowned to himself. He would have to tell Jeffen about this matter too, so he could pass it along to his own, second set of masters. They would understand the seriousness.

*****

Veronica watched Airik Jones leave for his meeting with Chung/Banerjee with a heavy heart. He had seemed so distant and formal, a startling contrast to their closeness in the tunnels. His wounds had to be painful, so perhaps that was why.

She couldn’t do anything for him, other than persuade auntie Neza and Mrs. Grisson that she would be safe for the evening back at the White Elephant when Mr. Jones returned for the night. He had paid for his rooms and he would still be expecting them.

She wondered if she should have kissed him before he left. He had saved her and her sister at great risk to his own life. But she didn’t really know him. She still didn’t know anything about his family or even if ‘Jones’ was his last name. She didn’t know why he needed a bodyguard. She didn’t know how he felt about her. There was so much she didn’t know.

It was paralyzing.

She wished she had kissed him. It had felt so good to have his arm around her, leaning on him, knowing he had come for her. She put her hand into her pocket, feeling her earbobs that she had dropped to mark the way. He had returned them to her before he left, while apologizing for not rescuing the remains of her bead necklace.

Veronica spared a glance at Shelby, now hard at work capturing Dean’s description of the mysterious boss from Barsoom on paper. Shelby knew where she stood with Malcolm. The two of them had made it plain enough to everyone in the room. She had no idea her sister would be so willing to kiss and cuddle a man in front of their great-aunt, along with a selection of the goggling and whispering neighbors, particularly a man she and the family had only recently met.

Neza did not seem to disapprove, smiling fondly on the two of them when she wasn’t whispering to Mrs. Grisson. Malcolm Cobb was not from a family that her great-aunt would have ever considered worthwhile in the past. He certainly wasn’t what auntie Neza had been hoping for since the day Shelby started classes at PanU.

Yet there they were and Neza openly approved. Well, he was a banker and he seemed to believe he would be able to keep the family from being evicted so that might be the reason. Veronica tsked at herself for being so cynical. Malcolm Cobb had trusted them enough to reveal who he was and he was proving himself still more.

Airik Jones owed her nothing, even as she owed him her life. What if he hadn’t come down with Malcolm? Malcolm had grown up in the Steelio warrens but he would have been one man against two. Why had Mr. Jones gone down below? She should have asked him.

She could ask him tonight, when he returned from his meetings. She might find out more about the mysterious Mr. Jones.

Veronica wished again that she had kissed him when he left. He would leave for good for Barsoom soon enough and then she would never have the chance again.

*****

Shelby concentrated on refining her sketch of Tallon and Charlie’s boss. Dean hadn’t been as observant as Elliot had been and she didn’t know the right questions to elicit telling details.

“Sergeant?”

“Yes, Miss Bradwell?” the desk sergeant replied, looking up from where he was working out a plan to search the neighboring streets and houses. Neza and Mrs. Grisson were both assisting him; helpful and irritating by turns. Between the two of them, they knew virtually everyone living in the dome. He would have to put their immense social network to good use in the future, maintaining order in Dome Two.

“Does Dome Six have a police artist?”

“Yes, they do, Miss Bradwell.” The desk sergeant came over to study her latest sketch, the one Dean was most pleased with. He frowned at it.

“Doesn’t look much like the one you drew before.”

“I know,” Shelby said, frustrated. “Dean’s not been very helpful.”

“I’m trying,” Dean said wearily. “I’ll see that man in my nightmares forever.”

“Yes, but _I_ can’t see him. Sergeant? If you could get the police artist to come to Dome Two to work with Elliot and Dean, I think you’d get a much better picture. You’d know who to look for.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Miss Bradwell,” the sergeant replied. “Dome Six keeps him busy.”

“With what? Littering complaints?” Neza inserted herself into the conversation. She leaned over to study Shelby’s drawings.

The sergeant laughed harshly. “Dome Six gets plenty of muggings, pickpockets, and purse-snatching. More than we do, truthfully.”

“Really?” Shelby said. She’d always believed Dome Two was more dangerous, yet thinking it over, she realized she’d never been harassed other than at PanU by other students. Nor had she heard of one of the neighbors complaining about a recent robbery.

“That’s where the population and the money is,” the sergeant replied dryly. He studied her sketch again. “You thought about becoming a police artist yourself, Miss Bradwell? You’ve got the knack of making a picture look like a real person.”

Shelby felt herself glow with pleasure. Here was proof again, from someone with nothing to gain by saying so. She could draw. She had talent. She’d already started thinking about her future away from PanU before she’d come home. But when Dean had come in through the kitchen door of the White Elephant with Tallon and Charlie, she had stopped thinking.

Then Malcolm and Mr. Jones had finally showed up. She hadn’t thought much when she’d walked back through the tunnels with Malcolm’s arm around her. She’d been so glad to be alive, to be next to him. His very male presence filled her brain completely with thoughts that made her blush at the time. Recalling them made her blush harder.

They’d made it back upstairs safely, to auntie Neza, and she’d done what she always did. She started sketching. Yet all the while, on some hidden level in her mind, Shelby realized, she’d been thinking about her future and the desk sergeant’s off-hand remark brought it forth.

She wanted to spend her future with Malcolm Cobb. She wanted to be an artist. She wanted to earn her own living with her talent. Beauty mattered to her and she wanted to share beauty with Panschin. Like Malcolm, she wasn’t going to lie about who and what she was. She could be as good an artist as Clyde Monez. But she wouldn’t do what Clyde Monez did. She wouldn’t lie.

She would talk to Professor Vitebskin in the morning. It wouldn’t matter what he said in response, but he would know the truth. They both would.

*****

Airik sat awkwardly in the transtube, his bruises, stitches, and the heavy bandaging bothering him with every breath and movement. The police surgeon had been adamant about him seeing a doctor as soon as possible to check for infection. Every time he shifted his weight, trying to get more comfortable, Nunzio looked concerned. After the tenth readjustment, Nunzio asked if he wanted to move up to the first-class tube to stretch out better.

“No, I’m fine,” he replied.

“Make sure you tell the family you said so,” Nunzio said dryly. “They won’t believe me.”

No one else paid them much attention other than to glance over and look puzzled. Airik had earlier silently blessed Elliot for packing several changes of clothes for the White Elephant, insisting that, as a gentleman, he should be ready to dress for dinner. Airik hadn’t needed to, and now, he was decidedly overdressed for the afternoon transtube. But this suit was clean and undamaged. It was also currently too tight because of the bandages around his chest and leg.

The message his body was sending him was clear: he’d have to check in with the Twelve Happiness doctor in the infirmary. That would, at least, allow him to check on Upton’s condition.

He would be even later returning to the Chung/Banerjee meeting than originally planned. Airik could only hope that Gaston had not signed any contracts ensnaring Shelleen in a business deal he would come to regret. The prospectus had looked bad from the start, and the additional information he had gotten at the White Elephant had inclined him to refuse any partnerships. The final straw was discovering from Dean Kangjuon of all people that Peng McGrant had bought his stake in the company via his gambling wins.

It was all too much.

Dean had said the McGrant family had no mining background; they were merely looking for a company they could milk of cash until it folded, thus recouping all their spent money via a tax-dodging effort and earning a profit at the expense of the original company. That explanation, Airik reflected, went a long way towards explaining his impressions. He patted the report he had just finished reading again, the one Upton had left behind.

Upton’s carelessness had been providential. He would have returned to the White Elephant in the evening, as always, and discovered the bodies. Tallon would have murdered Veronica for lying about finding some of Simon Bradwell’s coin, Shelby and Neza as witnesses, possibly Lulu and Florence, and most of all, Dean, for being such a fool. Having watched Mrs. Grisson in action with the local police, Airik realized she knew everyone in Dome Two and she would have never accepted anything Dean would have had to say about the new owners of the White Elephant.

He would have lost Veronica Bradwell.

It was unlikely Malcolm would have succeeded on his own. It had taken both of them, fighting together, to injure Tallon and Charlie enough to stop them. The sound of crunching bones and snapping joints would visit him in his nightmares, joining Howard Shelleen’s screams. Airik also understood he would do it again, despite the cost, just as he would punish Howard again for betraying the demesne. Scars were the price you paid when you did what needed to be done.

He would have lost Veronica.

The thought ate at him, more painful than the itching, burning lines seared across his chest and thigh, hurting more than the bruises and aches he felt everywhere. Beautiful, clever, strong, considerate Veronica would have died in the tunnels in terror and agony.

She should have meant nothing to him other than a struggling bed and breakfast owner. Yet she did. Tallon the thug had been correct; she was made of fire and nerve, with a spine of the finest steel.

“Our stop is next, sir,” Nunzio murmured.

Airik opened his eyes wearily. “So it is.”

“You gonna see the hotel doc on your own or am I gonna have to drag you into their infirmary?”

“I’ll walk under my own power, thank you,” Airik said. “I need to check on Upton’s condition anyway.”

“What happened to him? I got the craziest story from one of the waitresses.”

“I’ll fill you in during the walk to the hotel.”

“And when we get there, you’ll see the doc. First thing, before you do anything else. Sir.”

“It wouldn’t be sensible to do otherwise,” Airik said.

Nunzio, good servant that he was, managed to keep his mouth shut.

*****

“Hmmm,” the hotel doctor said, examining Airik’s fresh stitches on chest and thigh, along with his collection of bruises. “What were you doing in Dome Two to earn this?”

Airik eyed him suspiciously.

“Why do you ask about Dome Two?”

“I recognize Dr. Coben’s stitching and knots. He does very neat work. Gets a lot of practice in the tunnel bars under Dome Four.” The hotel doctor smiled brightly at Airik. “We’re on the same team in the local footie league.”

“I thought he was the police surgeon for Dome Two.”

“Dr. Coben is, but Dome Four is right next to Dome Two so their police department covers both sections. Dome Four doesn’t rate a substation of its own since there’s not much trouble aboveground and the city won’t put a substation in their tunnels.”

“Then why do you assume I was in Dome Two?”

The hotel doctor gave Airik a pitying look.

“I cannot imagine how the daimyo of Shelleen would manage to find his way into the tunnel bars under Dome Four. Dome Two you could find. The museums are there so the city provides plenty of signs.”

Airik thought about this as the doctor smeared stinging, antiseptic jelly over his stitches, adding to their irritation. Panschin was a more closely-knit city than he had assumed. In many ways, it resembled the villages of Shelleen, running on gossip and personal connections.

“How is Upton doing?”

The hotel doctor frowned. “He has to stay overnight and all day tomorrow. He isn’t breathing well. I’m getting more worried about his sinuses and lungs than his other ailments. Pneumonia, you know.”

“Damnation,” Airik said. Where was he going to find another secretary?

“Doctor?” Winifred Qiao opened the door and trotted in on silent, bare feet. “Upton’s breathing is changing for the worse. He needs you right away.”

“I am with a patient, Miss Qiao. I will be there shortly,” the doctor answered testily. “Where’s my head nurse?”

“With Upton. _She_ sent me.” Winifred stopped and realized who the doctor was treating. “My lord Shelleen. I, uh, didn’t recognize you.”

She blinked at Airik’s bare chest, adorned with a stitched together slash, then ran her eyes down his body to his thigh wound. He was sporting a constellation of bruises, brown and purple blotches against his grassy green skin.

“What on Mars were you getting up to in Dome Two?” she asked.

Waiting quietly in the background, Nunzio did his best to hide a grin.

Airik said, “You know Dr. Coben as well?” Miss Qiao must not have left the infirmary. She was still wearing her fuchsia cocktail dress but she had removed her very impractical, high-heeled sandals.

“Oh, yes,” Winifred replied. “He has a very distinctive stitching style. He gets a lot of practice from tunnel bar fights. A broken whiskey bottle does terrible damage.”

“Do not speak about my injuries to anyone, Miss Qiao,” Airik said firmly.

She reared back, deeply offended. “Patient confidentiality comes first, my lord Shelleen. I know my duty.” She frowned and added, “Upton’s been worried about what you’re going to do about a secretary. He won’t be able to work with you for days, maybe a few weeks.”

“No diagnoses, Miss Qiao,” the doctor said. “We don’t know for sure, not yet.”

“Of course, Doctor,” Winifred Qiao said.

“There,” the hotel doctor said to Airik. “All done. Get dressed and stop by every morning and every evening for a check-up. Make sure to tell Dr. Coben if you see him that you’re seeing me as well. I’ll have my dispensary compound a pain-relieving tea for you. It will be sent up to your suite when it’s ready.”

“My thanks,” Airik replied. ‘Along with a sizable bill, I’m sure,’ he added mentally. He’d have to ask Lulu at the White Elephant if she had a brew of her own. Her other tea had worked so well for his secretary. Hmm.

“Miss Qiao? I need to speak with you,” Airik added.

“Upton needs me,” she protested and began edging back towards the door, intent on following the doctor hastily leaving the room for his other patient.

Airik held up a hand. “This is a business matter. Wait.”

He was gratified to see that Miss Qiao actually listened to him.

“I was told that Marmaduke Qiao follows contracts to the letter. Is that correct?”

“My esteemed grandfather wouldn’t dream of reneging on a contract,” Miss Qiao retorted. “It would be dishonorable.”

“Do you feel the same way about patient confidentiality?”

“Of course,” she said, offended again. “I am a member of Qiao & Schopenhour as well as being in training for medicine.

“So you don’t plan on discussing, say, Upton’s medical issues with your family, despite the obvious pressure to do so?” Airik asked.

“Never.”

“Very good. I will remember what you said. I’ll need to speak with Marmaduke and Bertram as quickly as possible. I’ll be meeting with Chung/Banerjee” – Airik noticed with interest the look of distaste that crossed Winifred Qiao’s face when he said that company’s name – “and they may interrupt that meeting.”

“May I ask what this meeting is in reference to?” Miss Qiao said.

“Among other things, I require a replacement secretary,” Airik said. “Reliable, competent, loyal to me, and totally discreet as I do not need Shelleen’s business dealings discussed with Qiao & Schopenhour now or ever or with anyone else.”

“Qiao & Schopenhour will honor your contract to the letter,” Miss Qiao said. “Make sure you’re complete and detailed with your requirements.”

“And if Marmaduke were to die tomorrow? Would that remain true?”

“Yes, it would,” Miss Qiao replied icily. “Everyone in our family, unlike some other companies in Panschin, knows how to honor a contract. My esteemed grandfather’s death will not change that fact.”

Airik allowed himself a smile. So, Malcolm Cobb had been correct.

“You implied you have other needs, my lord Shelleen?” she added.

“I do, but I will not discuss them with you.”

“Very good. I’ll make the arrangements and then I must return to Upton.”

Airik eyed her carefully. Her once tastefully arranged hair was coming out of its elaborate crown and she had not, based on her fuchsia dress spattered with body fluids, left the infirmary.

“You never saw my secretary before today’s luncheon?”

“Never.” She smiled suddenly, her face lighting up. “I will always treasure the memory of today, when we first met.”

“Wiping algae dumplings off Upton’s face after he slipped and cracked his skull and two ribs?” Airik asked dryly.

She giggled suddenly. “Yes, even though it was ridiculous as well as painful for my poor Upton.”

“I see. You may go,” Airik said and began struggling back into his clothes for his meeting with Chung/Banerjee. Fortunately, it took place upstairs in the suite so he wouldn’t have to leave the hotel. As he did so, he thought over how he would word his other request to Qiao & Schopenhour.

The memory unsettled him and had since they left the thugs dying in the tunnel. Tallon had called out, as they were leaving him and Charlie behind in the unending darkness under Panschin, ‘Ronnie, Ronnie. No forgiveness.’

Did the thug mean that his boss wouldn’t forgive him for failing? Did the thug mean he didn’t forgive Veronica? Or worse, was it a warning that his mysterious boss would harm Veronica Bradwell for foiling his plan to take over the White Elephant and run Panschin?

Malcolm Cobb had seemed sure he could do something about finding this boss from Knights of Mars. The police were looking as well. But what if they failed?

Every day since arriving in Panschin, Airik realized anew how little he understood the free-city. All his previous studies were proving to be wildly inadequate and inaccurate. He could do very little to protect Veronica, her sister, and her aunt, other than insist that they relocate to Shelleen. But he might be able to persuade Qiao & Schopenhour to look for the mysterious boss. It wouldn’t hurt to have a third set of allies. They would be pleased to have Shelleen in their debt, encouraging them to say yes to his request.

As he worked his painful way from the infirmary, through the lobby, and up the four flights of marble stairs to the suite, Airik parsed out the exact wording he wanted for the contract with Qiao and Schopenhour. Nunzio, at his side, noticed his abstracted silence and remained silent himself.

*****

Nunzio opened the door to the suite for Airik and he strode into the room.

Everyone looked up and then stared.

“Airik, what happened to you?” Gaston cried out, after staring in horror at the bruise stealing across Airik’s jaw and cheek.

Gaston then turned and said to Nunzio, “and what the hell were you doing that you let this happen to the daimyo?”

“Nunzio was following my orders,” Airik said coldly.

“I was, my lord Gaston,” Nunzio said. “The daimyo did what was needed and very necessary it was, in my opinion.” He inclined his head to Gaston and retired back to his usual position, holding up the wall where he could watch everyone.

“Then what happened?” Gaston asked again, noticing that Airik was now dressed for a formal dinner rather than wearing the business suit he had worn only a few hours ago.

“It can wait,” Airik said even more coldly. “I have the report on Chung/Banerjee along with additional information. Mr. McGrant, explain why, as a financier with Mercantile and Commerce, you bought into a failing mining firm with gambling winnings. You have zero mining background.”

Peng McGrant leaped to his feet. “How dare you make such an accusation.”

Airik noted with interest how none of the Chung/Banerjee staffers sprang to their boss’s defense; instead they maintained blank faces or silently stared at briefing papers.

“Dean Kangjuon told me. His information reinforced the issues I saw in your prospectus.” Airik watched Peng McGrant’s face pale, then turned on Gaston. “Did you sign anything?”

Gaston looked offended. “No sir, I did not. I did not like what I saw, nor did I like the answers I was getting from McGrant. I do not believe that Chung/Banerjee is any better run than Jandinaire. I recommend we avoid both companies.”

Airik allowed himself a cool smile.

“I concur. Now let’s discuss what Chung/Banerjee can do for Shelleen.” The thought occurred to him that Qiao & Schopenhour might not have the information he did; unlikely but possible. They might be open to swallowing up a rival and doing business with Shelleen afterwards. Then they would be back in Shelleen’s debt.

For Peng McGrant, the meeting tumbled down the shaft very quickly and he greeted the knock on the suite door with relief.

*****

Nunzio ushered in Marmaduke and Bertram Qiao, followed by several of their own staff.

Marmaduke’s eyes widened on seeing the bruises on Airik’s face, as did the rest of his staff.

“My dearest granddaughter, Winifred, said you had a contract you wished to discuss?”

“I do,” Airik said. “Before we start, were you aware of how Peng McGrant bought into Chung/Banerjee?”

Marmaduke Qiao inclined his head, indicating that his son would speak.

“We are not,” Bertram Qiao said. “We have heard disturbing rumors and had wondered, but we have no facts. We do not, by the way, recommend dealing with Chung/Banerjee. There are better companies in Panschin, ones that are not being driven into the ground, their employees ruined, and their assets strip-mined for frivolities and riotous living.”

Peng McGrant scowled and made a move to leave.

“Stay,” Airik commanded. “This concerns your company.” He plunged in, revealing everything Dean Kangjuon had told him about the deals and connections between Peng McGrant, Sajag Burgess, and Simon Bradwell, all made over the tables in Panschin’s casinos.

When he finished, Peng McGrant had sunk into his chair and refused to meet anyone’s eyes. Members of his own staff whispered among themselves, glaring hostilely at their boss.

“Fascinating,” Bertram Qiao said. “Your information fits so well with what we have observed.”

“Next,” Airik said, “I need a secretary while Upton is convalescing. Here are my requirements. In addition, I have another request but I must speak about that one privately.”

“Of course, my lord Shelleen,” Bertram Qiao murmured. “It will be a pleasure to do business with Shelleen.” He bowed deeply and his eyes gleamed as he watched Peng McGrant sink deeper into his chair.

*****

Airik thought long and hard over what he wanted to say to Qiao & Schopenhour about Knights of Mars and the threat to Veronica Bradwell and her little family. In the end, he decided to be truthful. It was rewarding to watch their eyes widen and their respect for him grow.

When he finished speaking, Bertram Qiao said, “we will be happy to assist in looking for this man. Blue Sun, while a constant problem, can be managed. They are a known quantity. They understand how things are done in Panschin. On occasion, they are useful. There are, shall we say, certain requirements when dealing with what lives below, in the deepdown. Outsiders from Barsoom will not understand. We will not take that risk.”

“My thanks,” Airik said, while wondering exactly what lived in the deepdown under Panschin and how it was different from the mines of Shelleen. Perhaps it was linked to the mysterious religious ritual that had gotten Steelio, his niece, and Winifred Qiao a seat at his table for the luncheon.

Bertram Qiao exchanged worried glances with his father.

“Have you, my lord Airik,” he asked delicately, “made arrangements to deal with the violent bloodshed underneath Dome Two? This concerns us.”

“I have not,” Airik said slowly. “Isn’t that a police matter?”

“It is.” Bertram and Marmaduke exchanged glances again. “We will deal with them and make sure the proprieties are observed.”

“What are those?” Airik asked suspiciously.

“Oh, no need to worry yourself. Merely a Panschin superstition,” Marmaduke said easily, taking the lead. “We’ll take care of it.” His son nodded in agreement.

“I see,” Airik said, although he did not.

He would, he knew, have to expand Elliot’s researches. Perhaps he could persuade Malcolm Cobb to tell him. The banker, having been raised in the Steelio warren would be sure to know all about what lived in the deepdown. He remembered watching Malcolm’s face when the medic had come back up from discovering the bodies of Tallon and Charlie. The banker had looked briefly terrified, as did many in the crowd of policemen and Mrs. Grisson’s relatives and boarders surrounding them. He had then refused to speak about it to Airik, other than saying he would ‘take care of it’.

Airik wondered if that concern had made Malcolm Cobb leave sooner than he otherwise would have, abandoning Shelby and her sister because something much more critical had gotten his attention.


	33. Malcolm speaks to Jeffen about Blue Sun business

 Jeffen was already waiting for Malcolm in the small pub that served the residents of the Steelio Warren. He nodded to various people he recognized as he passed them, on the way to Jeffen’s table tucked in the corner. Jeffen was not alone. He had a friend with him, a man Malcolm vaguely recognized from working in the deepdown.

“You needed to talk to me?” Jeffen asked, even before Malcolm sat down. “This better be good. I don’t like getting Mr. Steelio’s personal attention unless I earn it.”

“It is,” Malcolm replied. He leaned over and whispered “It’s in regards to Blue Sun.”

Jeffen sat back and raised an eyebrow at Malcolm.

“Back room. Follow me.” To the other man, Jeffen said, “wait here.”

He picked up his mug of beer, Malcolm did the same, and led the way to the side door, partially hidden by a large cabinet at the end of the bar. The door, made of bamboo rather than a wool curtain, could not be seen from the entrance to the pub. Malcolm had noticed it before and never given it a second thought.

The door opened up into a small meeting room with a table, a selection of mis-matched chairs, and a huge collection of empty bottles waiting to be washed and refilled crowding the shelves. One wall was lined with locked cabinets. The exposed rock had been whitewashed, to help the skimpy lighting. There was also a second bamboo door, but not one leading back to the pub. Malcolm had to wonder where this door went, since it couldn’t lead back to the main passageway.

“Have a seat. You looking to join?” Jeffen asked. “A straight arrow like you?”

“Never,” Malcolm replied. “But I have information that Blue Sun needs. I hope you can pass it on to someone higher up who can act on it.”

“Higher up, huh,” Jeffen said. “What, you think I’m some low-level foot soldier? A few rungs down the ladder from an assistant manager?”

Malcolm studied him for a moment. Jeffen was only a few years older than he was.

“Aren’t you?”

Jeffen leaned forward on his elbows. “No. I am not. I am here because I got a message from Steelio himself. You’re one of his fair-haired boys. Tell me why I got to listen to you.”

“Give me a minute, while I rearrange everything I thought I knew,” Malcolm admitted.

“I’m counting the seconds.” Jeffen looked around the small room, openly bored and hostile.

“What do you know about Knights of Mars?” Malcolm asked. The possible reason for Jeffen’s friend, currently waiting patiently outside, was becoming clear. He’d seen Nunzio do the same for Airik, patiently waiting and watching. Jeffen’s friend and Nunzio were of a similar size too.

Jeffen took a long, long pull on his beer before answering.

“They’re an organization similar to Blue Sun, based out of Barsoom. I don’t know much more, except that we don’t want them in Panschin. Thirty seconds left.”

“They’re trying to move in to Panschin and take control, unseen by anyone, including Blue Sun.”

“That changes things,” Jeffen replied. He set his mug down on the table, making it ring. “I’ll give you as much time as you need. Start at the beginning.”

“You recall Shelby Bradwell?”

“Yeah? What’s she got to do with Knights of Mars. Something else her sodding bastard of a father did?”

“No, it’s because of the house Shelby, her sister, and her aunt live in in Dome Two. It’s called the White Elephant.”

Malcolm dove into the story, carefully omitting the fact that Airik Jones, visiting businessman from Barsoom, was actually the daimyo of Shelleen.

As he spoke, Jeffen interrupted regularly to ask probing questions designed to elicit more information. With each question, Malcolm realized anew that Jeffen should have been picked for the scholarship program just as he had been. He was far, far more intelligent than he let on.

“Hellation,” Jeffen said at last, after he sent out for another round and plates of algae dumplings, and Malcolm had finished talking. “A house in Dome Two connected directly to the train station via abandoned tunnels. It would work. They’d move people, goods, and weapons in and out and we’d never know. Where’s that Dean Kangjuon now?”

“In police custody, under armed guard, or so they implied. He’ll be on his way to trial and will probably end up in the Dirac mines in short order for that stunt.”

“I’ll give you a list of Blue Sun controlled Dirac mines. He needs to get sentenced to one of them, if you need to keep him alive.”

“They have that kind of reach?” Malcolm asked, disconcerted again.

“Yeah, but so does Knights of Mars. If your informant ends up in a Dirac mine they control, and they find out, he’ll be beaten to death in short order.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Malcolm said. “Carefully. I assume you don’t need this list made public?”

Jeffen grinned. “You are a smart one. I don’t. How’s Shelby handling this? She wasn’t real comfortable being underground when you brought her down.”

Malcolm sighed gustily. “I don’t know if I’ll get her back into the warren any time soon. That cloud painting she promised you?”

Jeffen’s face turned cold again. “I do.”

“Shelby wants to know if it’s okay for you and your wife to come to the White Elephant to pick it up.”

Jeffen grinned widely, friendly again and pleasantly surprised. “In her house? We’re allowed in her house? That house?”

Malcolm grinned back. “They let _me_ in. We’ll make a day of it. We’ll show you around Dome Two and take you to lunch at the Dappled Yak.”

He paused and eyed Jeffen. Handling Jeffen was becoming like handling explosives. Powerful, valuable, and touchy, but very, very useful as long as he was exquisitely cautious. “Do you want to see the hatch and the tunnel access while you’re at the White Elephant? We can climb down and trace the tunnel route to the train station.”

Jeffen looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “I dunno. I need to. But that area’s got to be cleansed and purified first. You should know that, even though you don’t earn your living in the deepdown anymore.”

“I’m seeing the shaman next.”

“Good. Murdering your partner and then cutting your own throat in the pitch-black deepdown sounds like something ignorant that Knights of Mars would do. They don’t understand what lives beneath. We can’t allow them here in Panschin,” Jeffen said. “It’s not even a matter of competition.”

“No, I didn’t think so.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, nibbling on algae dumplings.

Jeffen broke the quiet. “Blue Sun owes no one. What do you want in exchange?”

Malcolm sat back. “Finding this mystery boss. I don’t care what you do to him, so long as word doesn’t get back to his bosses in Barsoom, putting my Shelby and her family in danger.”

“That was a given the moment you told me,” Jeffen replied. “What do _you_ want from Blue Sun? So’s we’re square.”

“Give me a minute.” Did he want to ask about Burgess and his gambling habits? Malcolm thought hastily, then decided not to. The small group of Second National executives would take care of Burgess for him so there was no reason to muddy the issue. He still didn’t know if Burgess had his own dealings with Blue Sun. Now that he had a better idea of who and what Jeffen was, it would be much safer to steer clear because it was quite possible that Jeffen did know and had reasons of his own to keep Burgess safe.

But there was something else.

“All right. This is what I want,” Malcolm said. “You know I got ambitions. I plan on becoming the President of Second National _and_ Chairman of the Board.”

Jeffen stared at him, his turn to be disconcerted. “You want Blue Sun’s help?”

“No, never,” Malcolm said. “I can do this on my own just fine. The place is loaded with idiots and mazhors. I’m gonna clean house. I want Second National to be the best bank in Panschin, the most honest bank. I want it to be a bank people can rely on, not one that will cheat its clients with bad investments like Simon Bradwell was peddling.”

“Okay, still with you,” Jeffen said. “But what’s that got to do with us?”

“I want Blue Sun to stay away from Second National. If I find Blue Sun money in my bank, I’ll prosecute. No money laundering, no embezzling, no scams, no extortion cash, no drug and whore money, nothing. Stay away from my bank.”

Jeffen smiled slowly. “That makes two things Blue Sun owes you.”

“What?” Malcolm said. “I just told you I’d investigate and prosecute. How do you owe me?”

“And here I thought you was smart,” Jeffen sniffed. “Who do you recommend who won’t care like you do?” His eyes gleamed.

“First National,” Malcolm replied promptly. “They got poor oversight. Then there’s….” He stopped suddenly and smirked. “You can figure it out on your own, I’m sure.”

“So what do you want from us?”

“Jeffen, I’ll be honest,” Malcolm said thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I guess for Blue Sun to stay out of my business and away from my family. I’ll do the same for you. That enough?”

“It’ll do. For now,” Jeffen said. “Shelby coming along for your ride to the top?”

Malcolm beamed. “If she’ll have me.”

“She’s a nice girl,” Jeffen said. “Too bad about her old man. Maybe your liabilities will cancel hers out.”

Malcolm scowled. Jeffen saw all too well the bind he was in with Shelby. “That’s my plan. In the meantime, talk to your wife and set up a time to visit the White Elephant. If you come in the next two weeks, you’ll get to see just how good an artist Shelby really is. The place is hosting the PanU Artists’ Collective art show.”

“They any good?” Jeffen asked curiously.

“They’re _awful_ ,” Malcolm replied with a grimace. “Shit smeared on canvases. I was floored when I walked in. Just could not believe what I was seeing. Yet this avant-garde art is approved by our betters. It has to be a scam to fool normal people. No one would ever hang this dross on their walls. You’ll see.”

“You really want to join the upper-classes if they like that kind of dross?”

“Damn right I do,” Malcolm said. “They’ve gone soft in the head if those heaps of tailings are any indication. Panschin needs people like me to keep the city moving forward.”

He stopped and gave Jeffen a considering look. “They need people like you, too. We counter-balance idiots like Kip McGrant.”

“That mazhor.” Jeffen spat onto the floor.

“Yeah.”

Jeffen ate the last algae dumpling, then stood up. “If we’re done, I got work to do and you got to go see the shaman.”

“We’re done,” Malcolm said. “And Jeffen? Thank you.”

Jeffen showed his teeth. “Keep an eye on the papers. You’ll know when we succeed.”

“A body dumped in a Dome Six park?”

“These things happen during the Biennial Mining Conference.”

“So they do,” Malcolm said. “So they do.”

*****

Veronica fretted and stewed the rest of the afternoon at Mrs. Grisson’s house. She should have said something, she should have done something, she should have kissed Airik Jones when the opportunity presented itself. The Biennial Mining Conference would be over in another week and he would be gone for good, gone back to Barsoom.

She’d never see him again after he left Panschin.

She owed him everything. He’d rescued her and her sister. Auntie Neza was alive and unhurt. They knew why the thug had wanted the White Elephant.

Airik Jones had come to mean something to her, even though she probably meant not that much to him. He’d leave. Why wouldn’t he? He had a family in Barsoom waiting for him. He might, the thought stabbed her heart, already be married to someone else, someone who could appreciate his intelligence and sly, dry wit. Someone who appreciated how very un-average he was.

She couldn’t kiss him now. The crisis had passed and it wouldn’t be seemly. She should have thrown her arms around him then and kissed him soundly, lingeringly, letting him know just how much she appreciated his valor. She could have passed it off as being overcome by the moment. Now, with him back at the Biennial Mining Conference and her swept off to Mrs. Grisson’s house, her chance was gone.

Veronica sighed. Here she was, mooning over a man about whom she knew almost nothing about, other than she fancied him. If Airik Jones were to discover the depths of what her father had done, he wouldn’t give her the time of day, or at least not publicly. It reminded her of how Shelby was treated and her sister should have been young enough to remain untainted. Shelby had not had to defend herself in court against charges that she had helped dear old dad defraud everyone who trusted him.

What could she do? She could mope about and stay right where she was. Or she could make sure Mr. Jones was properly taken care of, just as he had paid for. That meant -- she eyed Neza and Mrs. Grisson rehashing the entire, dreadful experience over tea and biscuits for the benefit of the remaining members of Mrs. Grisson’s household, along with a selection of agog neighbors – persuading her aunt she needed to be back at the White Elephant when he returned home from his meetings.

With Mr. Jones back in the house, along with his servants, she wouldn’t be alone. Lulu and Florence would be home by then. She observed Shelby, currently sketching variants of her drawings of the mystery boss, trying to combine Elliot’s and Dean’s descriptions into an accurate composite. Shelby never paid much attention to her surroundings when she was drawing; she would remain completely focused on her subject. Her little sister could remain with Mrs. Grisson or go back home. Either one would work for her if she was kept distracted.

The White Elephant was waiting for her. Dean had been hauled off to the police substation for further interrogation. Mrs. Grisson’s oldest son was staying at the house, overseeing the police team investigate the second subbasement and the hatch to the tunnels. The rescue and recovery team should have hauled up the thugs’ bodies by now and gotten them on their way to the morgue. They were no longer a threat to her or to the house. Veronica couldn’t bring herself to feel any sympathy for Charlie, having Tallon slash his throat open in the pitch-black deepdown, multiple times if the medic’s initial report was accurate. He’d earned it for hurting Shelby. And then Tallon had shoved his knife into his own throat, stabbing up into his brain to ensure he died quickly.

It didn’t bear thinking about what Tallon would have done to her, when he discovered she had lied about finding a stash of dear old dad’s coin. Veronica was glad he was dead. He’d never hurt anyone again. Even so, grateful as she was that he was dead, the image would haunt her. She pushed it firmly away, hoping it would fade with time.

She had to wonder how much damage the police were doing to her garden, her main source of income, as they checked every aspect of house and garden. Maybe she could talk Neza into letting her go back to keep the police from trampling the greens. With all those beat patrolmen scurrying around, Tallon’s mystery boss wouldn’t dare come near the house. She’d be perfectly safe and she could get back to work.

The time to be worried about safety would be after the Biennial Mining Conference ended and Mr. Jones left for Barsoom and the local police moved onto other problems.

The threat of Mr. Burgess evicting them all paled by comparison. Mrs. Grisson would take them in, temporarily to be sure, but she’d help them find new lodgings. She, her sister, and her aunt would still be alive.

Alive to starve.

Veronica paced nervously around the perimeter of Mrs. Grisson’s dining room. It was larger than the White Elephant’s, a good thing because Mrs. Grisson had converted her ballroom into a warren of rooms for boarders. She kept staring out the windows at the vegetable beds filling the yard. Mrs. Grisson grew a very different selection of vegetables than she did; that way, they could split the market.

What would she do to earn coin if she couldn’t grow vegetables for market? Veronica closed her eyes in pain. Writing gardening articles wasn’t working. She’d be on her knees scrubbing terraformers in short order, but luckily, she’d gotten good at that task in the last few years.

She kept staring out at Mrs. Grisson’s garden beds as she paced around. Her own needed her attention if she was to get the Dappled Yak’s order ready tomorrow morning.

Hmm. Two reasons to go home might be enough to get auntie Neza to agree, along with the fact that she wouldn’t be alone. Her aunt could stay with Mrs. Grisson if she wanted to. The two of them would discuss the thugs’ home invasion for the next year.

“Veronica,” Neza said, interrupting her thoughts.

“Yes?” Veronica answered. She’d thought Neza hadn’t been paying any attention, being intent on filling in the avid listeners with every detail of the past few days.

“You’re going to wear ruts in the rug. Would you like to sit down and have some more tea?”

Veronica looked down at her empty cup. When had she finished drinking it?

“No, I don’t think so. I’ve been thinking that I should go back home. I’ve got work to do in the gardens to get ready for the Dappled Yak’s order and Mr. Jones will be back this evening. I need to clean up from the police before he returns.”

Neza gave her a long, considering look, as did Mrs. Grisson. The two old ladies exchanged glances, fraught with meaning, while Veronica waited patiently.

“You know, Veronica,” her aunt said thoughtfully. “You’re probably correct. The house will be a mess and Mr. Jones did pay for rooms through the end of the mining conference.”

“Uh,” Veronica said. She’d been gearing up for an argument. She rallied with “right. Yes, he did. It wouldn’t do to not deliver on the contract. What if he were to ask for his money back?”

“Yes, what if,” Neza said dryly. She knew perfectly well that Veronica always insisted on payment up-front, in full, and with no refunds when she rented rooms.

“And I won’t be alone. Lulu and Florence will be home soon and of course, Mr. Jones has his servants with him,” Veronica added, just in case Neza changed her mind. “Shelby could come home too.” Inspiration struck. “Lulu and Florence could invite Trevor and Evan over.”

Veronica smiled brightly at her great-aunt who nodded agreeably.

“Yes, I think that could work,” Neza said.

“I think Neza’s right, dearie,” Mrs. Grisson added firmly. “Mr. Jones did pay for those rooms and an agreement’s an agreement. I’ll have one of my boys take one of your spare rooms and another of my boys can bunk down in your ballroom. Just to be sure you’re okay.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Veronica gushed. Lordy, but auntie Neza was giving up easily. Having Mrs. Grisson, her bosom companion, agree meant it was a sure thing.

“Huh? Did I hear my name?” Shelby asked, finally noticing the conversation going on around her. Her voice was still hoarse and would be for days. She coughed, reached for her own tea, and took a sip.

“Yes, dear girl,” Neza said. “Veronica needs to move back to the White Elephant. She wanted to know if you wanted to come along. Mr. Jones will be expecting a clean house to sleep in tonight.”

Shelby gaped at her, her teacup shaking in her hand. “But we were attacked! Those thugs’ boss is still roaming around Panschin. He’ll murder us in our beds.”

Neza frowned at her.

Mrs. Grisson said, “I’ll inform the desk sergeant I expect regular foot patrols. He won’t ignore _me_ , not after what happened. Besides, Shelby, didn’t that nice young man of yours say he was going to do something about hunting down the thugs’ boss?”

Shelby opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again before answering.

“Um, yes?” She set down her teacup and thought rapidly.

Maybe she could persuade Malcolm to doss down in the White Elephant as well. There were plenty of extra, empty bedrooms. He’d be sleeping in the same house, maybe even on the same floor, possibly the same wing! He’d be so near to her. The thought was exciting. He could have breakfast with her. He might be willing to walk with her to PanU in the morning again. She could tell him about her decision to confront Professor Vitebskin. She could spend more time with him, just like he was a real boyfriend. He fancied her; she was sure of it. She’d see more of him, a lot more. If they spent more time together, he might decide he liked her enough to ignore what dear old dad had done despite the damage her background would do to his career prospects. She had to seize this golden chance.

Everyone was watching her, waiting for what she would say.

“Yes, yes, he did,” Shelby affirmed eagerly.

Neza smiled fondly at her, and then at Veronica. “How nice. Then it’s settled. We’ll get you back home in plenty of time for Mr. Jones.”

“Thank you,” Veronica said, thinking furiously. That had been far too easy, almost as though auntie Neza had ulterior motives. Veronica sniffed internally. She did want to see Mr. Jones again, but it meant nothing, not to her, not to him, and not to anyone else. Nothing would come of it. He’d go back to Barsoom and leave her alone in Panschin. The pain stabbed through her heart again.

He would go home to someone else.

Her little sister, at least, would see more of Malcolm Cobb. That had to count for something, Veronica decided. One of them would be happy.

*****

Malcolm had a long discussion with the Steelio warren shaman about what happened in the tunnels beneath the White Elephant. As with his conversation with Jeffen, he carefully avoided identifying who Airik Jones really was.

When they finished, the shaman said, “this will be a big job. Murder and suicide! That area won’t be safe for anyone for decades if it is not cleansed and purified. The stones themselves have drunk too deep of blood. I will make the arrangements.”

“My deepest thanks, mùshī,” Malcolm replied, his head bowed.

The shaman gave him a long, considering look. “You can find this Mr. Jones?”

“Yes, mùshī. He is staying at the White Elephant.”

“Good,” the shaman said. “You and he will need to be purified as well.”

“Uh,” Malcolm said. “I’ll do my best. What about the Bradwell sisters?”

The shaman thought about this carefully as he stood in the small chapel carved from the living rock. His feet were bare and he had both hands resting on the rock slab, forming the altar. He closed his eyes and let what lives beneath speak to him.

Malcolm waited patiently. His own bare feet were freezing from standing on the living rock, but he shut down his discomfort, like he shut down the discomfort from his bruised and aching body.

The shaman opened his eyes. “They should be all right. They did no harm to anyone. The only blood they shed was their own in the normal manner of scrapes. You and Mr. Jones, however, must undergo the ritual if either of you ever plan to enter the deepdown again.”

“Yes, mùshī,” Malcolm said. Airik had shown he was comfortable in the deepdown but it was doubtful that anyone from Shelleen truly understood what lived in the bones of Mars. He would have some persuading to do.

The shaman caught his hesitation. “You said Mr. Jones is from Barsoom. Nonetheless, he must do this for his own safety.”

“Yes, of course, mùshī,” Malcolm said. “There is something Mr. Jones wants done. Miss Bradwell broke her necklace of glass beads to leave a trail. He would like the beads collected and returned to him so he can have them restrung for her.”

The shaman remained expressionless. “That will take some time. No one can be allowed in that section of the tunnels until after I and my brothers have finished cleansing the area.”

“Yes, mùshī, so I told him,” Malcolm said.

“Does Mr. Jones understand that few miners of Panschin will willingly go into that area even after we have finished?”

Malcolm smiled coolly. “Money talks. He’s ready to pay. There will be someone who will do this for him. After the tunnel has been cleansed and is safe again.”

He thought of something else suddenly, another potential problem. “It’s a crime scene. Will that be an issue?”

“No. The police of Panschin have their own shaman who will ensure their safety during their investigation. When they are complete, they will let me and my brothers know. Then we will begin.”

“My deepest thanks, honored mùshī,” Malcolm said. “As soon as I can persuade Mr. Jones, I will tell you.”

The shaman said, “do not delay, Malcolm. What lives beneath will crave more blood after a feast like that one. Much more. Do not delay.”

*****

It felt like leading a parade, Veronica reflected, as she marched back to the White Elephant followed by her sister, her aunt, Mrs. Grisson, and a host of the available boarders, relatives, and neighbors. The walk back let her see again how foolish Dean had been, thinking he could have persuaded all these people that nothing was amiss.

Tallon had been much, much smarter. He had realized how important she was in getting the neighbors and the bank to accept his presence in the White Elephant. He probably wouldn’t have murdered her when he found out she had lied. What he would have done, though, day after endless, torturous, punishing day, was make her wish he had murdered her.

Veronica shuddered again. Mr. Jones coming to get the missing report and Malcolm coming to speak with Neza had saved her and Shelby and Neza. According to Neza, they hadn’t hesitated. They had both decided to descend into the tunnels at once and rescue her and her sister.

Tallon might still have murdered her and Shelby. If Mr. Jones and Malcolm had gone for the police, he would have been desperate enough and steel-nerved enough to make sure the police found nothing but bodies.

No witnesses. He wouldn’t have left anyone alive, including himself.

What a narrow escape they had had. She should have flung her arms around Mr. Jones and kissed him all over. She should have given more of herself than her kisses to him. Her mouth on his, her body against his, flesh to flesh becoming one. Her wayward thoughts made her flush with heat. He had become so very un-average, so very appealing.

Yet the fact remained, she didn’t know anything about him.

She couldn’t trust her instincts. She kept being wrong, with Dean as exhibit ‘A’. He had said Tallon had threatened his parents. They were, quite naturally, more important to him than her, his ex-wife. Her, he would sacrifice and he had. She had still believed he cared about her. How wrong she had been.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Neza said.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Veronica said. She knew suddenly that she was right. Dean was nothing. He wasn’t worth stewing over, any more than being haunted by Tallon was worth fretting about. Dean was in police custody now, because of his stupidity, and his parents – who had stopped being fond of _her_ the moment dear old dad’s crimes began surfacing – would get to enjoy public humiliation and ridicule.

That was worth a smile, so she provided her thoughts to Neza.

Neza laughed and laughed, warming Veronica’s heart. “I suppose they’ll visit Dean in the Dirac mines,” she finally said.

“No,” Veronica said thoughtfully. “I don’t think they will.” She chuckled too. “What would their friends say about them going to such a place?”

“After everything they said about you, I don’t feel the least bit sorry for them,” Neza said firmly.

She suddenly felt much lighter and freer. It would be petty, Veronica knew, to enjoy watching the Kangjuons suffer a bit of what she and her sister had endured, but she would enjoy it anyway. She was alive. She hadn’t died in the tunnels. The sun was shining somewhere on the other side of the dome. Mr. Burgess might still be able to evict her, but she, her sister, and her aunt were alive. They had friends. They had neighbors. They had allies.

She wasn’t alone. Even when Mr. Jones left her behind in Panschin, she wouldn’t be alone.

*****

Veronica’s heart skipped a beat when they arrived at the White Elephant. The gate was wide open and the police were carrying out the bodies of Tallon and Charlie on stretchers to the waiting Black Maria. The bodies were draped in sheets for more discreet transport.

She made herself walk up to the supervising patrolman, fear suddenly attacking her.

“They are dead?” she demanded. Her hand went to her throat, bare of beads.

“Yes, Miss Bradwell,” the patrolman answered. He answered her unspoken question. “It took longer than expected to haul them up the upshaft. There’s things that had to be done underneath.”

“What things?”

He tugged at his collar. “You’re not from a mining family, is that correct, Miss Bradwell?”

“No, I’m not,” Veronica said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’ll let the shaman explain.”

He led her, followed by Neza and Shelby and the rest of the entourage into the White Elephant, carefully skirting the bodies as they were carried past. In the atrium he introduced her to an impressively bearded man wearing long robes. Every shade of gray and brown swirled around in them, but handsomely; not discordant like the painting looming above him. The gold police badge pinned to his chest stood out, an incongruous note. His feet were bare.

The patrolman ducked his head in respect.

“Honored mùshī, this is Miss Bradwell.”

“Miss Bradwell,” the shaman smiled at her. “You are not familiar with the ways of the deepdown?”

“No, I am not,” Veronica answered. “Obviously, not nearly as much as I should be.”

“Blood was spilled under your home, feeding what lives beneath. I am overseeing the safety of the police as they work in the tunnels underneath us. My brothers will arrive soon, to continue our rituals where those two thugs died. Your house will be purified as will be the tunnel network below it.”

“Uh,” Veronica said, at a loss. He smiled at her encouragingly. The patrolmen standing around all seemed to think the presence of the shaman was normal and expected. Then she remembered the many strange stories about what lived in the tunnels. Cave vipers were just the most common example.

“We won’t be haunted or disturbed?”

“No, Miss Bradwell, you shouldn’t be.”

“How long will this take? I have visitors from out of town for the Biennial Mining Conference. I don’t want them disturbed.”

“Miss Bradwell, this takes precedence. I’ll also need to speak with Mr. Jones since he, like Mr. Cobb, fought with those two in the deepdown. Their lives and their souls are at risk.”

“Oh. Well, we don’t want that,” Veronica said, not knowing what else to say.

“No, Miss Bradwell. We do not.”

She took a look around, seeing dirt and terraformers tracked in everywhere. Fortunately, her vegetable beds outside remained pristine, just as she had left them. The police of Dome Two were more considerate of her gardening than the PanU Artists’ Collective had been.

She glanced back at Neza and Shelby, who looked equally puzzled. Mrs. Grisson, right behind them, looked pleased as though things were being handled properly. Well. If Mrs. Grisson approved, then she needed to approve.

“Please, do what you need to do,” Veronica said. “In the meantime, I need to clean up for my out of town guests. Will that be all right?”

“Of course, Miss Bradwell. And may I say that I am impressed by your gardens.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I supply the Dappled Yak with produce.”

“I have eaten your vegetables,” he said, smiling. “Delicious. If you will excuse me, now that the bodies have been removed, I must return to the tunnel beneath us and await my brothers.”

“Of course,” Veronica said, resolving to ask Mrs. Grisson later exactly what was going on under her feet.


	34. something lost, something gained (things are looking up)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (but will they stay that way?)
> 
> OR: Airik reaches a conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize that this is late, but i was sick yesterday and it completely slipped my mind

The rest of the afternoon went by swiftly. Getting back to work in the garden beds let Veronica focus on something alive, growing, and earning her money as opposed to rape and murder in the tunnels. The police finished up and left, allowing Neza and Shelby to begin cleaning up, with Mrs. Grisson and the other neighbors pitching in. The gardens gave Veronica her excuse to escape outside, under the dome, rather than inside the White Elephant. The cleanup had to take place but her vegetable beds would earn more much-needed coin in the morning.

The afternoon’s high point was the arrival of a trio of shamans, all wearing similar robes, all impressively bearded, and all sporting bare feet. They marched up the gravel pathways without a twinge or flinch. Veronica led them through the atrium, noticing as she did how each man cast a look around at Professor Vitebskin’s most prized art selections and flinched, grimaced, then turned away.

They wanted her to take them down below, to the waiting hatch.

She had to force herself to walk down both flights of the curved staircase, down the shadowy passageway, and then into the dim room in the second subbasement that held the hatch. Fortunately, the shamans following her didn’t expect her to talk.

“Uh,” Veronica said, when they reached the hatch, still left open. It was a square mouth filled with black, with only the faintest glimmer of light shifting and twisting at its bottom. “Do you need me to lead the way?”

She had to repress a shudder. She wouldn’t climb back down the ladder to explore the tunnel maze under the White Elephant ever again; not voluntarily.

“No, Miss Bradwell,” the leader of the group said. His robe had flecks of sparkle woven into the coarse cloth, like mica shining in the low granite walls that encircled the White Elephant. “That won’t be necessary.” He studied her open discomfort for a moment. “We’ll be able to find our way back upstairs when we’re finished. You won’t have to wait for us.”

“Thank you,” Veronica said, deeply relieved. She kept feeling as though the thug was watching her, resenting her, hating her for living and escaping him. She couldn’t stop a shudder this time, thinking of Tallon and what he had said as she walked away from him.

She blurted out “the thug said ‘no forgiveness’ when I left him to die in the dark.”

She could still hear his rasping voice, thick with un-swallowed blood and see the dark, mirrored pool forming under his head.

“Miss Bradwell?” the lead shaman said, watching her distraught face. “Part of our ritual cleanses ghosts and other evil spirits. The souls of those two men will be sent on their journey. They will not return, not to the tunnels below, and not into your house. They will not speak to you again.”

“But he said…” her voice trailed off.

“There is always forgiveness, even for one such as he. He, however, along with his companion, will have to earn his forgiveness over many, many lives to come.” The shaman smiled reassuringly at Veronica.

“He earned his fate as did his companion. You, Miss Bradwell, are forgiven. Rest easy.”

“Thank you,” Veronica forced out. She prayed their ritual would work. She looked for something else to say and settled on “it’s very cold down there. I can provide wool socks or slippers.”

“Not necessary, Miss Bradwell. The living stone speaks to us via our flesh.”

“Oh.” She really didn’t know what to say to that.

“You may go.”

“Thank you,” Veronica said and fled upstairs to light and sun and air and green, growing things that she knew were actually alive.

*****

Once his private business was concluded with Qiao & Schopenhour, Airik allowed himself to enjoy eviscerating Peng McGrant in the meeting that followed. He vividly remembered what Florence had said; that the McGrant family would sue the Bradwells over Kip’s surface sickness, despite Veronica and Shelby having nothing to do with it.

His new secretary, Inigo Schopenhour, seemed competent as he swiftly wrote everything down said by the participants. His stenography skills looked faster than Upton’s had been, a good sign. The next test, Airik knew, would be discretion. Could he actually trust any member of Qiao & Schopenhour within the confines of the White Elephant as he made notes on the events of the day? He eyed Bertram who was twisting the knife into Peng McGrant by demanding new concessions be granted to Qiao & Schopenhour, in exchange for keeping Chung/Banerjee afloat. Apparently, although rumors abounded in the Panschin business community about the health of Chung/Banerjee, firms like Qiao & Schopenhour did not actually have facts in hand. Now, they did, and they could use those facts to their own advantage. They would owe Shelleen.

Airik had to wonder if, despite the regular presence of powerhouse demesnes like Maerski, Davis, Atto, and Fuziwara in the business world of Panschin, Qiao & Schopenhour understood how much power a demesne wielded. If they lied about the discretion of his new secretary, a member of their own family, he would destroy them. In his experience, business people in the free-cities liked to think they were untouchable by the Four Hundred.

They were wrong. Whatever struggles one Four Hundred family had with another, they formed a united front when dealing with citizens of the government corridors.

The meeting over, Airik’s new secretary whispered to him about the next item on his schedule: a joint conference with those four demesnes, Maerski, Davis, Atto, and Fuziwara. Airik wanted to groan. Despite the claims of ‘wanting to work closely together’ what those daimyos really wanted was control over his land, his Red Mercury lode, and entrée into his family to retain that control for generations to come.

They still treated him like he was an ignorant yokel from a third-tier agricultural demesne, someone who didn’t understand anything about how the mining and extraction industry worked. He took a look around the suite’s conference room. Qiao & Schopenhour no longer believed that, nor did Chung/Banerjee, and Airik supposed, based on what Gaston had said, neither did Jandinaire. He would teach this group of aristocrats the same lesson. Shelleen was no longer third-tier.

*****

The walk from the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel to the tower complex owned by the Four Hundred mining families was interesting. Every step confirmed to Airik that he had done the right thing for him in relocating to the White Elephant to sleep. Dome Six was noisy, surprisingly dirty up-close, and crowded. It had all the disadvantages of Barsoom along with the dome overhead keeping out the rain that would have washed it clean on a regular basis.

He tested buildings and structures as he walked by, looking to see if he could feel the tingle of electrical current keeping Dome Six free of terraformers. He couldn’t, but it was obviously enough to deter them. That led to another conclusion: since Dome Six was self-cleaning of terraformers, the residents seemed to think this meant it was self-cleaning for everything else. It wasn’t. Airik caught the glint of beady eyes staring out from a fetid, dim alley, reminding him unpleasantly of how Veronica’s beads strewn in the tunnel had shone like eyes in the dark.

He hoped that Malcolm would be able to arrange for their recovery. She would smile at him when he returned them, restrung, so she could wear her beads of star stuff again. He searched for a distraction from the memory of how her smile warmed him, how her laugh reminded him of a brook sparkling in the sun.

He was in Panschin on business. That should be his focus.

“Inigo,” Airik asked. “I see what appears to be eyes down that alley. What is it?”

“Rats, my lord Shelleen,” Inigo replied. “Dome Six is infested with them.”

“Are the other domes as well?” This was the distraction he needed.

“It varies, my lord. They all have some. Rats eat terraformers in the other domes, but then they die of fungal infections which keeps the population down. In Dome Four, there’s plenty to eat but it’s all toxic so they don’t live long. There are weird mutations too. Here in Dome Six, there’s no terraformers to eat so they eat garbage instead.”

“I see,” Airik said. “Since they are eating a healthier diet, they live longer and breed more readily?”

“Yes, my lord, you have the right of it.”

“Why are there no cats?”

“Cats don’t tolerate terraformers well, my lord. The spores cause breathing issues. They’re expensive pets because of their medical bills.”

“I see,” Airik said, thinking of the hordes of barn cats in Shelleen, happily producing litter after litter of kittens to be eaten by hawks and foxes, when they weren’t busily devouring rats and mice themselves. No one ever wasted medical care on cats.

“The terraformers affect every aspect of the ecosystem of Panschin.”

“Yes sir, they do.” Inigo discreetly coughed and then blew his nose. “I have traveled some, and I’ve never seen anything like Panschin.”

“I must agree,” Airik replied. “Upton told me about the Four Hundred tower complex. Have you been there?”

“No sir.” Inigo frowned. “The Four Hundred owners don’t normally allow anyone inside but other members of their class. Previous meetings with Qiao & Schopenhour have taken place in our headquarters or neutral ground. I don’t know why.”

“Interesting,” Airik said.

“Here we are, sir,” Inigo said, stopping at an imposing doorway set into the gleaming, creamy yellow stone wall they had been walking by. The door was manned by several uniformed guards standing idly by it, watching the crowds go by. Airik suddenly realized the wall they had been walking past filled the entire block, from cross street to cross street, with no windows or other openings other than this one, arched doorway. The huge pair of doors filled the space, with no window to allow a peek inside. The doorway itself was framed in elaborately carved stone with a shield mounted at the top, containing the sigils of Maerski, Atto, Davis, and Fuziwara. The other participating demesnes had smaller insignia circling the large shield, moons orbiting the gas giants. Airik recalled Veronica and her joke about Professor Vitebskin. It was obvious here who held sway.

The head guard, evidenced by his collection of shiny brass buttons, rows of gold stripes, and colored ribbons on his black uniform, bowed.

“Greetings, my lord Shelleen.” His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the bruise smeared across Airik’s jaw and cheek. The guard turned off his welcoming smile and pointed at Inigo, smartly dressed in current but conservative Panschin fashions. “Is this” – he hesitated – “person part of your entourage?”

“Yes, he is,” Airik said coldly. “My replacement secretary, Inigo Schopenhour, on loan from Qiao & Schopenhour. I expect full access for him. If you do not allow him to accompany me every step of the way, this meeting is canceled. I can find other demesnes to do business with.”

“My deepest apologies, my lord Shelleen,” the guard murmured. “Wait here please, while I confirm your request.” He slipped back inside, via a much smaller, side entrance tucked into the side of the arched opening. The wall was thicker than it appeared from the street, probably to better support its three-meter height. Airik had to wonder what else the wall contained. It wasn’t insulation, not inside a dome. It seemed equally unlikely that the walls were meant to repel invaders since Panschin was riddled with underground tunnels. Sappers could dig upwards from anywhere.

‘Interesting,’ Airik thought. ‘Upton’s illness may prove beneficial. Why won’t they let in residents of Panschin?’ He tapped his new secretary on the shoulder and whispered “watch everything and report back to me afterwards.”

“Yes, sir,” Inigo whispered back.

“Do you know anything about this, Gaston?” Airik asked, low voiced.

“No sir,” Gaston replied. “It seems strange. We’ve never stopped anyone from Purnell from coming inside our buildings. They’re guests! They have guest rights.”

“Yes, very strange.”

The guard returned within minutes, apologizing profusely for the delay.

“If you would follow me, sir, the daimyos are waiting for you in the main conference room.”

The guard threw open both sides of the heavy, ornately carved doors, giving a glimpse to the street of what was normally concealed.

Airik paid careful attention as he followed the guard; Gaston, Inigo, and some other Shelleen staff following him, Nunzio bringing up the rear. The creamy yellow wall enclosed what looked like an entire block of Dome Six. Inside the courtyard were closely spaced five-story towers, mostly made of glass windows and balconies, with creamy yellow stone acting as the support work. The courtyard’s paths were made of the same stone, separating wide beds of grass and flowers framing the towers. The enclosure was clean, green, spacious compared to the rest of Dome Six, and delicately scented by flowers.

In every way, it was greener, more tasteful, and quieter than the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel. He could have stayed here, instead of the hotel. But if he’d stayed here, he wouldn’t have met Veronica. She’d be fascinated by the expansive – for Panschin – lawns edged by flower beds. The grass, real grass, was dotted with tiny blue flowers.

Airik felt a sudden pang of homesickness seeing grass again, along with dwarf flowering trees scattered artistically across the small lawns. There were some birds in the trees, steppes sparrows by their song. A squirrel eyed him curiously from its position on the grass. Inigo, he noted with interest, was struggling to balance discretion with staring openly in shocked amazement. This, then, was unusual.

Residents of the towers were also in the courtyard, going about their business, although they all stopped to watch him. So, strangers inside were also unusual. One of them, a young woman, beamed at his appearance and ran up the path to meet him.

“My lord Shelleen,” she gushed. “I’m so happy to see you again. How is dear Upton?”

It took Airik a moment to work out who she was, since she no longer had fluffy purple eyelashes and was now wearing a prim business suit instead of a painted-on cocktail dress with a plunging neckline.

“Miss Atto,” he said and bowed gracefully. She was too well placed and timed on the path. She had been waiting for his arrival.

“And us too! Don’t forget us!” Airik found himself surrounded by the other three young women of the demesne he had met earlier at the luncheon. In addition, they had brought along their sisters and cousins, their heavy perfumes overpowering the delicacy of flowers, and chattering eagerly about nothing in particular.

Airik stopped dead on the pathway. “I understood there was to be a discussion of how Maerski, Atto, Fuziwara, and Davis could provide assistance in better developing Shelleen’s resources?”

“Yes, of course, my lord Airik,” Miss Atto burbled. “Right this way.” She turned and pranced down the pathway to the nearest tower. Airik caught flashes of distaste on the faces of the competing demesne hopefuls aimed at Kendra Atto, flashes that turned instantly sweet when the maiden in question noticed him noticing.

He didn’t move, instead whispering to Inigo, “tell me what you know of Kendra Atto.”

His new secretary looked uncomfortable. “I can’t breach a confidence, sir.”

Airik eyed him. “Your personal impression of Miss Atto will do. Swiftly.”

“Yes, sir,” Inigo replied. “Intelligent, focused, driven, supremely well connected, scrawny for my tastes but otherwise attractive, and hugely ambitious.”

“I see,” Airik said. It was just about what he expected; both of Miss Atto and of what Inigo Schopenhour would be willing to admit, other than the carefully buried scrawny remark. Veronica flashed before him and he found himself agreeing with the secretary. He forced her image away.

“My lord Airik! Please, we’ve got so much to talk about,” Kendra Atto called back, her voice and expression sharper, when she realized that the daimyo of Shelleen wasn’t following her like a puppy on a leash.

“She’s also got a mean streak and a temper like a cave troll,” Inigo added in a barely audible, rushed whisper. “Don’t get anywhere near her.”

Airik had a sudden flash of Kendra’s treatment of the waitress at the luncheon over her drink order being incorrect. If she behaved that way in front of witnesses, how would she behave behind closed doors? Veronica carrying her tray of mismatched wineglasses rose before him, smiling and pleasant. Veronica who laughed because she liked him as a man and not as the daimyo of Shelleen.

“My thanks,” Airik whispered back. “Notice everything, write everything down. We’ll debrief afterwards.”

“Yes, my lord,” Inigo said as they went into the tower to the conference room.

The conference room filled, based on the evidence provided by the extensive glass windows, most of the first floor of the tower. It allowed a superb view of the green courtyard, a private oasis concealed from the rest of Dome Six.

The young women of the four demesnes fluttered around Airik, competing to ask questions about ‘poor, dear Upton’ and exclaiming over the bruise marring his face and wanting to know if he had gotten it because of Upton’s accident. The daimyos of Maerski, Atto, Fuziwara, and Davis watched, eagle-eyed, to see if any of their candidates caught his attention.

After a few minutes spent waiting for those aristocratic gentlemen to take the lead, Airik announced, “I’m here on business. Nothing else.”

“I suppose we should start then,” Maerski said, taking charge. “Airik, please have a seat.” He snapped his fingers for refreshments, provided by waiting, liveried servants carrying silver trays. Airik was forcibly reminded of watching Veronica respond to finger-snapping guests at the gallery showing at the White Elephant.

He shoved the memory away and sat as indicated, next to Maerski. A smiling Kendra swiftly slid into the seat next to him, the one where his secretary normally would sit. One of the other young women, Maerski’s main candidate, shot daggers at her rival, as did everyone from Fuziwara and Davis.

“No,” Airik said. “I need my secretary close by to take notes.”

“He is not one of us,” Maerski said slowly. “A member of Qiao & Schopenhour, you said?”

“I did,” Airik replied.

“He’ll have to leave,” Maerski said. “Here’s our joint proposal.” He bared his teeth and slid a contract across the table to Airik. He held out a pen, to make it easier for Airik to sign.

Airik glanced at him, picked up the proposal, and scanned the executive summary. He quickly leafed through the rest of the proposal, noticing all the while the complacent smiles of the four daimyos. They had expected him to knuckle under to their demand. Inigo, looking resentful, was already being spoken to by a member of security.

He stood up.

“No. Shelleen will not work with any of you. I am not a sheep waiting to be shorn as this proposal indicates you believe me to be. I do not work without a secretary, taking notes of every word said.”

He looked around the room, meeting the eyes of each of the daimyos, then dismissed them with a flick of his head.

“Gaston, Inigo, we are done here. Inigo, lead the way to Steelio.”

“But Airik,” Maerski protested. “We have the resources Shelleen needs.” The other three daimyos nodded in agreement.

Airik smiled, lowering the temperature of the room several degrees.

“I can easily find similar resources. There are other mining demesnes in the Northern Mining Tier. There are even, if further away, daimyos from the Southern Mining Tier eager to partner with Shelleen. There are many extraction businesses here in Panschin, as well as in Northernmost and Giloon. When you have rewritten your proposal, you may present it to me at the Twelve Happiness for my consideration. Good day, gentlemen. Ladies.”

He strode to the door, Nunzio already there waiting to open it for him.

Airik fumed silently during the short walk back to the wall separating the Four Hundred tower complex from the rest of Dome Six.

Once he was back on the street and out of earshot of the Four Hundred tower complex, he said to Gaston, “This is what they think of us, that we’re yokels. I will not stand for it. Shelleen is not third-rate. We are not ignorant. We are not geese waiting to be plucked.”

“You are correct, Airik,” Gaston growled. He held up the proposal with a wink. “I snatched your copy from the table and read the executive summary as we were walking out. Appalling. You would think they were trying to cheat ignorant sidewalk vendors.”

Airik smiled in surprise. Gaston had shown initiative, and on something he hadn’t thought of doing himself.

“Very good thinking, Gaston. Inigo, make copies of the proposal as soon as possible. That way, Gaston and I can both read it separately and compare our reactions.”

“Yes, sir, my lord,” Inigo murmured. He would get to read every word himself, while typing up copies. If Airik allowed him, he could pass on the information to Qiao & Schopenhour. Marmaduke would be pleased with this insight into the minds of the four mining demesnes surrounding Panschin. They were a constant thorn in the side of every business in the free-city.

Another block passed as Airik figured out the other thing that bothered him from the abortive meeting.

“Inigo, Gaston, you saw Kendra Atto shove her way to sit next to me but she wasn’t Maerski’s candidate. I would have expected a daughter of his own house. Do you know why she was allowed? The other young women don’t like her from my observations.”

Gaston shrugged.

Inigo said, “Kendra Atto is supremely well-connected. She’s a granddaughter of both Atto and Maerski.”

“Ah,” Airik said. “But even so.”

“Maerski is an only. His direct line has been declining in vitality, generation over generation. His only son didn’t survive infancy. His only daughter married Atto’s son, also an only. Their only child is Kendra. She is his only direct grandchild just as she is Atto’s only direct grandchild. There are many other young women in both families but Kendra is the favored one on both sides,” Inigo said.

“Even so,” Gaston protested. “They should not ignore other members of the family.”

“I agree,” Airik said. “This is foolish behavior on both daimyos’ parts. It does not show them as capable of seeing to the best interests of their demesne. I predict neither one will last much longer as daimyo.”

Inigo glanced at Airik in surprise. “Very astute of you, my lord. That’s the gossip in Panschin. It’s also believed that if Kendra had been male, she’d already be in the running as the next daimyo of Atto despite her age, temper, and lack of seasoning.”

“Her ambition,” Airik said.

“Gods below and above, yes,” Inigo replied. “She’ll crush everyone like a tunnel cave-in. No survivors.”

*****

Airik arrived early for his meeting with Steelio. It went well, reinforcing his decision that he did not have to work with the Northern Mining Tier demesnes if he did not choose to. There were other businesses that would be thrilled to work with Shelleen and not expect to gain control over his demesne in exchange.

Interestingly, Steelio’s niece appeared to know Inigo Schopenhour quite well, based on the shy smiles and quick touches they exchanged when the pair thought no one was looking. He’d have to remind his new secretary that confidentiality applied to everyone he dealt with, not just Qiao & Schopenhour.

Steelio’s niece laughed at something his new secretary said as they left her uncle’s offices. Veronica rose again, unbidden. Airik had to force himself to push her away, yet again. He could not stop thinking about her, concerned over how she was coping with the aftermath of trauma. He didn’t know when she would laugh again so easily, so freely. He would have to find something amusing to say to her, to hear her liquid, heart-melting trill again.

“Sir? My lord Shelleen?” Inigo asked.

“Yes, what is it,” Airik said sharply.

“We’re ahead of schedule. Do you wish to return to the hotel and review the proposal from Maerski, Atto, Davis, and Fuziwara more closely while preparing for the evening’s dinner?” Inigo asked.

He had forgotten completely. He wouldn’t be able to go back to the White Elephant and spend the evening quietly reviewing papers in the dining room, with Veronica bringing him tea and moss crackers if he wanted them. He wouldn’t see her until late. Instead he’d have to socialize with the upper classes of Panschin and the Four Hundred. He’d be swarmed by hopeful young women, all of whom were angling to become the daimyah of Shelleen. The pressure from the family was increasing for him to select a bride and produce children. He had to set the example. Shelleen was an agricultural demesne. The fertility of the daimyo shouldn’t matter, compared to the land, yet it did.

The image of Kendra Atto rose before him, credit signs dancing in her eyes, draped in costly jewelry that meant nothing to her, other than that it was expensive. The young women would all be like her, women who had ignored him until he became Shelleen’s daimyo. After that, he had been noticed, evaluated, and dismissed as still not quite worthwhile, as third-tier. Then he had announced the Red Mercury lode. On that day, he had stopped being invisible. On that day and every day since, he had become a magnet even though he, himself, had not changed. Those young women and their avaricious families did not see him. They never saw him. They saw a means to reach wealth and power.

If the Red Mercury lode were to disappear overnight, those gold-diggers would disappear as well, proving he had never been the lure.

Veronica saw him. He had made her laugh. Amazingly, she thought he had a sense of humor. She had no reason to smile at him, yet she did.

Those young women would have little interest in what the Shelleen family needed. He doubted if they would care even the slightest about his peasants.

Veronica would care. Her every action demonstrated how she cared for her family. She knew her neighbors well, people of lower castes in Panschin based on the crowd Mrs. Grisson had brought with her and the police from the substation. She had not sneered at them or thought them clods as Kendra Atto would.

“Sir?” Inigo asked again, looking concerned.

“Yes,” Airik made himself say. “An excellent idea.”

His new secretary had more freedom than he did in matters of the heart.

Veronica would accept his family but they would not accept her. She brought nothing to them of value; no connections, no wealth, no spectacular beauty, no aristocratic breeding. His family would welcome Kendra Atto, never knowing until it was too late they had welcomed a woman who would never consider them as her equals. The daimyos of the demesnes surrounding Panschin still considered Shelleen to be third-rate and she would share their attitude.

As they walked back towards the Twelve Happiness Luxury Hotel, many blocks away, the dome overhead began to dim ever so slightly, as the sun on the other side sank into the west. It was a signal many of the other pedestrians around them had been waiting for. The nightly serenade of party horns began to shred the atmosphere. Airik wanted to cringe and flee to the calm of Dome Two. He gritted his teeth and walked faster, so as to reach the relative safety of the Twelve Happiness more quickly. There was no other choice. The demands of Shelleen came first.

*****

Veronica paced nervously from floor to floor, and room to room. It was getting very late, yet Mr. Jones had not returned to the White Elephant. As she had when waiting for Shelby the previous evening, she made a circuit around the rooftop terrace to scan the streets, then walked to the atrium to look out the front door into the twilight. She even made a cautious foray into the garden itself, circling within the low stone wall that anyone could easily climb over, the wall that Mr. Jones had effortlessly thrown Dean over.

She did not make her trip alone. As promised, Mrs. Grisson had sent over several of her boarders and her oldest son. They were walking around the White Elephant as well. Veronica was unsure if their nervous checking and rechecking of the windows was reassuring or designed to make her even jumpier. Tallon’s mysterious boss was still out there. Despite the presence of the beat patrolman, nonchalantly working his way down the street, he could be easily hiding in one of the ruined mansions across the way.

What if Mr. Jones’ injuries were more serious? Would he demand his money back? She’d already spent a good chunk of it, paying the lease for the next two months. Worse, what if he sued her? She was borrowing trouble, she knew it, yet she couldn’t stop fretting. He was here in Panschin on business and businessmen routinely worked out deals over dinner. Dear old dad had done it all the time. It was the logical explanation for his tardiness.

Malcolm Cobb had returned from his own day and stopped to see how everyone was doing. Shelby had welcomed him effusively and asked him if he wouldn’t mind spending the night. He had been openly delighted at the prospect of sleeping on the floor of an empty bedroom at the end of their wing. Veronica had exchanged glances with auntie Neza and Mrs. Grisson; hers was disapproving and theirs not nearly so much so. Veronica wondered if she’d have to remind Malcolm and Shelby that the White Elephant wasn’t a country villa in a melodrama. They couldn’t sneak around from room to room, indulging themselves in clandestine meetings. The residents were all on edge and liable to raise a club first and ask questions later.

The house was full to bursting for the first time in decades. Trevor and Evan, Lulu and Florence’s boyfriends were cheerfully sharing another empty bedroom at the end of the family wing. Mrs. Grisson’s son and helpful boarders were downstairs, dividing themselves up between the dining room and the ballroom.

The only people missing were Mr. Jones and his party. They were late, very late.

Malcolm had reminded her that business dinners could run very late during the Biennial Mining Conference. He was also surprisingly sanguine about the whereabouts of the thug’s mystery boss.

“I don’t think he’ll be much of a problem,” Malcolm had said, but he refused to go into details.

Veronica paced around the yard again, circling the house and peering into the dim light filling the dome. What if Mr. Jones didn’t come back? She hadn’t thanked him properly. She should have kissed him when she had the chance.

A few circuits later, Veronica made her way back up both flights of stairs to the rooftop terrace to better observe the streets. She saw him at last, accompanied by Nunzio, unmistakable because of his size, and Elliot, but she couldn’t decide if she was seeing Upton. The dimmer light made it harder to make out his face. Then she knew. The fourth man in Mr. Jones’ party was a stranger.

She swallowed a scream. It was the thug’s boss. He had come back to seek his revenge. She clung to the wrought iron railing surrounding the rooftop terrace, shaking and nauseous. Mr. Jones and his entourage walked closer, in the dim light of the dome, and sanity forced panic back into its box.

Whoever the stranger was, he couldn’t be the thug’s boss. Nunzio, Mr. Jones’ bodyguard wouldn’t look so relaxed and neither would Mr. Jones. Veronica sagged against the terrace knee-wall in relief. It was someone else. Airik was safe. This time she would kiss him. She wouldn’t hold herself back.

Veronica ran down both flights of stairs and out of the White Elephant, down the gravel path, and towards the shrieking gate as he approached from the street.

“Mr. Jones,” Veronica cried out. “You’re back safe. I was getting concerned.”

“I’m fine,” Airik called back. Veronica had thought of him. The thought warmed him like fire.

They both walked swiftly, but not quite a run, towards the gate separating them, and at that in-between point, no longer on the public street and not yet in the private garden surrounding the White Elephant, Veronica Bradwell reached up and hugged Airik Jones and kissed him and he kissed her back. They ignored the fascinated audience, lost in each other’s arms.


	35. What the Panschin Gazette had to say

She fell into his kiss. This was what she wanted, had been wanting since she had met Airik Jones. The feel of his strong arms wrapped around her, the taste of his lips, the sensation of everything being right in the world.

He shifted his weight against her and she remembered where she was, standing at the gate of the White Elephant. She was kissing a guest -- a stranger from Barsoom -- as though he was her lover returned home from weeks away.

She let go, tore her mouth away from his and pulled back, her mind a jumble of shame and bafflement at her own behavior.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Veronica babbled. “Please forgive me for being so forward. It’s just that after this morning….” Her voice trailed off. “I’m so sorry.” She blinked back tears.

She retreated into the garden of the White Elephant, away from the street, away from him. Mr. Jones, normally so reserved, looked distraught. He took a step forward, favoring his hurt leg.

“I hurt you. Your stitches. I’m so sorry. Please, come inside. It won’t happen again,” she said, trying to make amends. “I won’t impose.”

“You didn’t,” he replied quickly. “You never hurt me.”

“Veronica? Veronica Bradwell?”

She turned at a man’s voice, one she hadn’t heard since dear old dad had brought the domes crashing down. He had watched her behave shamelessly with a stranger.

“Inigo?”

“Yes, it’s me,” Inigo Schopenhour said. He was staring at her as though he had never seen her before although they had once been good friends.

“Lordy, it’s been a long time,” Veronica said, startled and confused. “Wait. How do you know Mr. Jones? And where is Upton?”

“Mr. Jones?” Inigo asked, as muddled as she was. He looked around him, as though trying to place himself within the alien confines of Dome Two and caught Airik’s furious glare.

“Mr. Jones, right, my new employer,” he added hastily. “I’m his replacement secretary. Upton took ill.”

“How dreadful. Please, come inside,” Veronica said. “Mr. Jones, I’m so sorry for upsetting you.”

“You could never do that,” Airik replied. She had kissed him and it was everything he had wanted. Her warmth, her scent, the feel of her lush body pressed against his. He couldn’t think straight. He could only watch as his new secretary clasped both of Veronica’s hands and fight down the sudden flare of white-hot jealousy that surged through him. That should have been him, holding her hands. It was a relief when his new secretary let go of her hands, still looking bewildered.

“We should get inside, sir, I mean Airik,” Nunzio said. “Off the street.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Veronica said, seizing the lifeline Nunzio had thrown her. “I’ll make tea for you.”

She eyed Inigo and smiled hesitantly. He had once been a good friend, before. He had clasped her hands in greeting, as he had done so often before. Perhaps he wouldn’t slander her in front of Mr. Jones. He never had in the past. He had disappeared from her life, after dear old dad’s crimes had been laid bare for all to see like so many other old friends had, but he had never been cruel. He hadn’t spread vicious gossip. He hadn’t told everyone she should have known. He hadn’t come to ogle her sobbing in a courtroom while she defended herself and her sister. He hadn’t made her situation worse.

He hadn’t done anything at all, one way or the other.

She could do better than that, and, perhaps, remind Inigo why they had once been friends.

“You should be pleased, Mr. Jones,” Veronica said warmly. “I don’t know if Inigo told you, but he’s part of Qiao & Schopenhour. They’re a very well-regarded family company here in Panschin. He’s very capable.”

“Yes, he has been,” Airik said, answering dumbly. She knew his replacement secretary, his secretary who knew who he really was. He couldn’t think of what to do next.

For his part, Inigo Schopenhour couldn’t think either. Veronica Bradwell! He hadn’t seen her since Simon Bradwell’s embezzlement scheme had collapsed so publicly, destroying his family along with the finances of all his clients. She had disappeared, only appearing in public when she had a court date, and he hadn’t known where she’d gone. To his shame, he knew he hadn’t looked hard. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would still be living in the same house he had visited in the past; the one she had shared with Dean Kangjuon, her former husband.

He had done nothing to help her, even though she had helped him enormously. Veronica had been instrumental in helping him meet Olwyn Steelio without either family knowing they were courting. It had been far harder to arrange discreet meetings without Veronica to run interference. The shame at how he had abandoned her burned harder. He hadn’t treated her any better than that worthless cad, Dean, had done. Inigo wondered suddenly what had happened to Dean Kangjuon. He had run into Dean a few times since his divorce from Veronica and each time Dean looked worse. Dean looked like he was falling apart, as though he hadn’t been able to manage without Veronica.

*****

Veronica led the way, back into the White Elephant. Airik watched her retreating back for a moment, then tapped Inigo Schopenhour’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir?”

His new secretary’s face was a complex mix of emotions, none of which Airik could decipher without close study. He ignored them.

“Miss Bradwell does not know who I am. Do not tell her. Do not tell anyone. I sleep here because it’s the only place in Panschin I’ve found that lets me sleep and think in peace,” Airik hissed.

“Yes, sir.”

“I will not have my refuge damaged. If you reveal me, I will destroy you and Qiao & Schopenhour.”

Nausea roiled through Inigo. “Yes, sir.” He knew all the stories about run-ins with the demesnes surrounding Panschin. Even with Shelleen as far away as it was, Airik, as daimyo, enjoyed that kind of power. The Four Hundred stuck together. Maerski, Atto, Davis, and Fuziwara, despite Airik’s snub earlier, would back him to the hilt if it meant crushing an annoying free-city company and picking over the bones.

Airik turned away and marched up the gravel pathway to the welcoming door of the White Elephant, his face set in stone. Veronica waited for him and he would have to lie to her again, only this time, he’d have to force someone she knew to lie to her as well.

*****

Veronica silently blessed Lulu. She had kept the water hot and ready for tea. She poured out a cup of mint tea for Mr. Jones in the dining room, the soothing scent of mint curling around them.

It didn’t sooth her as it usually did. Mr. Jones seemed so distant and uncomfortable. She shouldn’t have kissed him. She had upset him. She had offended him with her brazen forwardness. She recalled how he had asked her when he had first arrived about ‘intimate introductions’ and how adamant she had been about not providing such services and wanted to cringe in humiliation.

Inigo Schopenhour had been equally stiff, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. He knew she was a pariah in Panschin. She had to hope he didn’t say anything to Mr. Jones. He would lose business and it would be her fault for not warning him.

It was a relief when Malcolm Cobb entered the dining room, or she thought it would be.

“Airik,” he said as he sat down. “We have to talk right away.”

“Cobb?” Inigo gasped. This had been a day of surprises for him and here was one more.

“Inigo Schopenhour?” Malcolm asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m, um, Mr. Jones’ replacement secretary.” Inigo’s eyes darted over towards Airik. “I could ask the same of you.”

“I’m the assistant manager of the local branch of Second National. Miss Bradwell and her aunt lease from us.”

“You two know each other?” Airik asked. This kept getting more complicated.

“Yes,” Malcolm said. “We shared some classes at Panschin School of Business.”

“Cobb’s a scholarship boy from the Steelio warren,” Inigo added, wanting to ensure the daimyo of Shelleen knew who was sharing his airspace. He’d always believed Malcolm Cobb to be very bright, considering his severely disadvantaged background. Was it possible he didn’t know who he was speaking to so abruptly?

“An excellent program,” Airik said coolly. “I never believed in wasting talent just because the person in question has less than aristocratic breeding. I was impressed that Steelio felt the same.”

“You know about it?” Inigo asked, disconcerted. “We at Qiao & Schopenhour, um, sometimes, …”

Malcolm interrupted him. “Qiao & Schopenhour sometimes participates, when it suits them. They don’t regularly look for talent like Steelio does. I always thought Marmaduke was missing a good bet. It’s surprising really, seeing how quick-witted he is on every other subject.”

“Bertram feels differently,” Inigo said sharply. “Expect the policy to change.”

“It should,” Malcolm snapped. “Qiao & Schopenhour loses loyal and hardworking talent every year they don’t participate.”

“Tea for anyone?” Veronica said, trying to prevent the impending tunnel collapse. “Sweet biscuits?” She desperately wished she had opened a few extra bottles of Professor Vitebskin’s plonk at the end of the gallery showing, storing them for an occasion like this one. They had already been retrieved so she couldn’t do it now. Mint tea wasn’t going to be strong enough.

“Thank you, Veronica,” Malcolm said graciously.

“Of course, Veronica,” Inigo said as well.

“You take good care of everyone, Miss Bradwell,” Airik said. He wished he could say her melodious first name but she had become formal and distant again. He’d eat what appeared to be another variety of compressed moss cracker for her, inedible as they were guaranteed to be for anyone not from Panschin. He selected the smallest one from her proffered tray and bit into it, proving both statements. He was counting on the mint tea to kill the taste and thankfully, it did. Strong mint tea was reliable that way.

“You needed to speak with me, Malcolm?” Airik asked, once the mint washed his tongue free of gritty moss. He was interested to see Inigo startle at his familiarity with a scholarship boy.

“Yes, about our little adventure this afternoon. I spoke with the shaman. You must, if you ever want to enter the deepdown again, anywhere on Mars, undergo a purification ritual.”

“Oh,” Veronica gasped. Her hand went automatically to her throat, were her cool, cloudy gray beads should have been. “The shamans who came to the White Elephant said the same thing.”

“A purification ritual?” Airik asked. He’d be able to learn more about Panschin’s religious traditions, the ones that no one was willing to talk about with outsiders. Veronica’s hand was at her throat, in a gesture he now recognized as anxiety. He’d have to get her beads back to her, and, perhaps, something else if she was willing to accept a personal gift from him. She was wearing the matching earbobs again, the ones he had rescued for her from the cavern floor that she had dropped as a clue for him.

“Were you involved in some sort of incident in the tunnels, my, um, I mean Mr. Jones?” Inigo said. A flash of fear streaked across his face.

“Winifred said nothing to you? Marmaduke?”

“No sir. That would be a breach of confidentiality.”

“Very good,” Airik replied. “Yes, as it happens, I was.”

“Mr. Jones and Mr. Cobb were extremely brave,” Veronica said. She smiled at Airik shyly, wishing she could hold his hand. She should have kissed him in the tunnels when it would have been welcome and understood in the excitement. “My sister and I might have died.”

Inigo goggled at her. “You and Shelby? Almost died in the deepdown?” He then turned his attention back to the daimyo of Shelleen.

“You must perform the ritual as soon as possible, my lord,” he said.

“I’ll make the arrangements for tomorrow,” Malcolm said.

“I have meetings all day,” Airik protested.

“Doesn’t matter,” Inigo said.

“Everyone from Panschin will understand,” Malcolm added.

“Even the mining tier daimyos won’t argue,” Inigo said. “Not for this.”

“You don’t know what happened in the tunnel,” Airik said, puzzled.

“If the shamans say you have to be purified, then you have to be purified,” Inigo replied stoutly.

“We both must do this,” Malcolm said.

“I see,” Airik said.

Veronica reached out and grasped Airik’s hand, twining her fingers through his, enjoying the feel of his warm skin against her own. He tightened his fingers around hers, not letting her free her hand and she didn’t pull away.

“You have to go, Mr. Jones,” she said, gazing into his eyes. “The shamans insisted. They said you wouldn’t be safe underneath ever again if you did not. I promised I would speak to you.”

Her dark eyes were like shadowed pools of water in the summer, deep and clear and welcomingly cool. He wanted to linger there, lost in their depths.

Airik blinked, trying to return to reality. “But what about you and your sister?”

“I asked,” Veronica said, falling into his hazel eyes. They were a complex mix of green shading to brown and she could gaze into them forever. “We didn’t shed blood the wrong way. We’ve been already blessed and the White Elephant has been as well.”

Airik smiled at Veronica, his heart leaping. She had touched him again. He mattered to her, at least a little. Her hand in his set his body aflame.

“Well then, if I must,” he said to Veronica. “Safety underground can’t be taken for granted.” He didn’t add ‘I want to be safe for you, so I can return to you,’ but he thought it.

“No, no it can’t,” Veronica replied to him. She wanted to add ‘I want you to be safe always. Safe with me.’

*****

Back upstairs in his room, Airik finished up the last of his notes for the day.

“Anything else, my lord?” Inigo asked. He was exhausted, his hands hurt, and he was hoping to hear a ‘no’. The daimyo of Shelleen was proving to be a more demanding boss than he had expected. He also needed time to process the events of the day.

“Be here at the White Elephant first thing in the morning. We’ll proceed from here to Dome Six for seminars and meetings, until Malcolm says the shamans are ready for me.”

“Very good, sir,” Inigo replied. Another long day lay ahead of him. Airik obviously believed in working from dawn until almost midnight.

He got up to leave, then hesitated by the door to the shadowy hallway. There was still barely enough light to make the transom window glow from the reflected light inside the dome falling through the skylight and the deck prisms. Dome Six never got this dark. He’d forgotten how spooky dark Dome Two could become.

“My lord Shelleen. I know it’s not my place to say this,” Inigo ventured.

Airik observed him coolly.

Inigo thought of all he had not done for Veronica when she needed his support and forced himself to open his mouth.

“Don’t lie to Veronica, my lord. Too many people lied to her starting with her worthless father. Did you know she was married? Her husband, Dean Kangjuon, walked out on her when she needed him the most. She doesn’t need more trauma in her life and neither does Shelby.”

“I have no intention of harming Miss Bradwell,” Airik replied. “I will see you in the morning, first thing.”

“Yes, sir,” Inigo said, and fled for the familiar lights of Dome Six.

Soon thereafter, Elliot approached Airik.

“If I may be so bold, sir?”

“Yes, what is it,” Airik said wearily. His stitches were hurting and his body ached all over. The pain tea Lulu insisted would help had yet to kick in. His evening exercise routine was going to be a challenge, enough that he was thinking seriously about skipping it.

“You are not my lord Upton. You do not trifle with the affections of ladies, young or old. Miss Bradwell, while a charming young lady, will never be accepted by the family.”

“Thank you for your input, Elliot. You may go,” Airik said. He knew his valet was correct.

Right after that, Nunzio said, “I’ve got to make a circuit around the house. See that everything’s locked up tight.”

“Malcolm implied that the thug’s boss wouldn’t be an issue,” Airik said.

“Yeah, he did, but that don’t mean he’s right. I’ll check anyways.”

“Very good,” Airik said.

Nunzio made no move to leave.

“What is it?”

“I like Miss Bradwell. I know what everyone else will tell you, but I like her and I think she’s good for you.”

“Thank you for your input, Nunzio. You may go,” Airik said. Unfortunately, his bodyguard was also correct. The needs of Shelleen weighed on him and sleep came as a welcome relief.

*****

Breakfast was a noisy affair, with all the extra guests. Veronica set up a buffet in the dining room to better accommodate everyone. As she was refilling cups with hot tea, she heard the gate shriek its warning.

Her hands went numb and the teapot shook, spattering drops of tea on the tablecloth, little dark pools like thinned down blood. Airik rose promptly and very gently took the teapot from her nerveless hands.

“I’ll get the door, Miss Bradwell. You sit down.”

“No, sir, Airik,” Nunzio said. “ _I’ll_ get the door.”

He was already moving quickly towards the front door, followed by Malcolm Cobb who had to leave Shelby’s side. Shelby looked as frightened as her sister and auntie Neza. Everyone else in the dining room was alert, waiting to hear something or moving to windows to see who was coming up the gravel pathway.

Nunzio and Malcolm returned a few minutes later, smiling, and accompanied by a yawning Inigo Schopenhour and surprisingly, Hurley, the bartender from the Broken Pickaxe.

Hurley held up the Panschin Gazette, opened to an inside page to better display the headline:

 

BODY FOUND IN PUBLIC PARK IN DOME SIX!

Victim beaten to death

First murder of the Biennial Mining Conference

We’re doing better than last time!

 

“Hello, Hurley,” auntie Neza said in surprise. “It’s nice of you to drop by and bring us a newspaper, but why?”

Hurley winked at auntie Neza. “I heard about what happened from the desk sergeant over to the substation. By the way, nice work, Mr. Jones, Malcolm, and you too, Neza. Then I saw the early edition of the paper and thought I’d share the good news right away.”

“And you are?” Airik asked.

“The bartender over to the Broken Pickaxe here in Dome Two,” Nunzio answered for Hurley. “We met at the police substation.”

“A stalwart member of our local community, Airik,” Malcolm said. “I’ll take you there and buy you a pint, if you’ve a mind.” He got a flabbergasted look from Inigo, which he ignored.

“A friend of mine,” auntie Neza said.

“Hurley buys some of my vegetables,” Veronica added. “Especially the radishes.”

“You grow vegetables?” Malcolm asked curiously. “I thought that was Mrs. Grisson?”

“We both do so we can split the market,” Veronica said promptly. She winced. “I mean, uh, it’s a hobby. Not a lease-breaking violation. No money changes hands.” Lordy did that sound like a lie, probably because it was one. On the other hand, after yesterday, why fret over a little violation like market gardening? They were all alive to argue over the finer points of the lease.

“You need to get up to speed on who does what here in Dome Two, my boy,” Hurley said. “We’re not like the other domes.”

“I’m working on it,” Malcolm said. “Don’t fret over your agricultural efforts, Veronica. I intend to rewrite some of the leases here in Dome Two to encourage that sort of entrepreneurship.”

“Ahem. Why isn’t a dead body in the park not on the front page of the newspaper?” Airik asked in exasperation. “And what does that have to do with us?”

“It’s the Biennial Mining Conference, sir,” Inigo answered. “There’s always a body or two that turns up in a park.”

“We’re really doing well this conference season,” Malcolm said. “Usually by now, there’s been two or three murders of out-of-towners as opposed to the residents killing each other. That happens all year round.”

“Besides,” Inigo added. “Front page news about murders discourages out-of-towners coming to Panschin on business.”

“Can’t have that,” Malcolm agreed. “The chamber of commerce works hard to make Panschin look safe.”

Airik wanted to roll his eyes, an uncharacteristic gesture for him. Panschin kept getting weirder. It had to be the ever-present fug of terraformers. There was no other explanation.

“All true, Mr. Jones. You’re seeing the shamans today, I hope?” Hurley said.

“If I can make the time,” Airik replied, thinking of the crushing load of seminars he was facing. The importance of meeting a pack of shamans to learn more about Panschin’s religious system had vanished overnight, unlike his aches and bruises.

He was answered with a dozen variations of ‘You must do this or someone will drag you underground to get it done’.

“Not to worry. I’ve already penciled it into your schedule, Mr. Jones,” Inigo said. “I’ll readjust as needed when Cobb gets me the time slot.”

“Fine, fine” Airik said testily, “but again, what does a dead body in the park have to do with us?”

“Desk sergeant told me that, based on our Shelby’s sketches, this particular body was identified as the boss of those two thugs who tried to murder our Veronica and our Shelby,” Hurley announced. “Confirmed by Mr. Kangjuon at the morgue.”

Airik stopped cold. “But he was murdered. By whom?”

“Oh, these things happen,” Malcolm said calmly. “He’s from Barsoom, remember, so this boss-type must have gone exploring where he’s not supposed to. Probably did something stupid in the tunnel bars under Dome Four.”

“Then wouldn’t his body have been dumped in a tunnel down there?” Airik asked.

He was answered with gasps of horror and shock and a wide variety of ‘never, far too dangerous, bodies are always left in the park’.

“I see,” Airik said at last. “Which is why I have to undergo a ritual purification despite not having actually killed anyone?”

His answer this time was a chorus of yeses.

“Everyone in Panschin will understand your absence, Mr. Jones,” Inigo reassured him. “There won’t be any questions.”

“Not even from all the other businessmen from outside of Panschin?” Airik asked.

“It will be explained, sir,” Inigo replied.

Airik wondered how he was going to explain it to the Shelleen contingent. If nothing else, Gaston would get to prove his abilities again, during yet another absence of the daimyo of Shelleen.

An inconsistency leaped out at him.

“Why do I have to be ritually purified, when apparently, the tunnel bars under Dome Four are soaked in blood and mayhem?” Airik asked testily.

“Dome Four is so toxic, what with the refineries and manufacturing and all, that what lives beneath doesn’t live there,” Malcolm answered. “Too poisonous.”

“But humans can go there?” Airik asked, his eyebrows raised as high as they could go.

“This is Panschin, Mr. Jones,” Inigo said. “It’s not like we have plenty of open, safe real estate for activities of the type that go on under Dome Four.”

“Besides, the shamans do go through Dome Four’s tunnels on a regular basis,” Malcolm added. “Just in case.”

“I see,” Airik said, although he did not. It had to be the terraformers. Despite his extensive travels, he’d never run into any place like Panschin.

*****

Veronica felt a weight she didn’t know she was carrying lift off her shoulders as she listened to the conversation while skimming the Panschin Gazette story. The mysterious boss was dead and horribly so, based on the lurid newspaper article. The reporter hadn’t spared the bloody adjectives to better describe the condition of the victim. He had been beaten to death, sustained many broken bones, and the fingers of both hands were hacked off. The fingers had been dumped next to the body. They were, according to the coroner, amputated while the victim was still alive. Other things had been done too, making her stomach roil. His face had been left relatively undamaged, a thoughtful touch as it made identification easier.

It was a horrible way to die and Veronica couldn’t muster one drop of sympathy. She thought of Tallon, dying in the tunnel in the dark after murdering Charlie. They were inhuman, the pack of them. The death of the mystery boss meant that Tallon’s threat of ‘no forgiveness’ had been empty.

She could feel the tightness in her chest ease. No one would come from Barsoom looking for her or Shelby or Neza. They could fade into safe, quiet anonymity.

She caught Mr. Jones protesting having to meet the shamans and reached across the table to grasp his hand.

He turned at once to gaze into her face.

“You have to do this, Mr. Jones. Please. For your safety.”

Mr. Jones smiled at her and she could feel herself smiling back.

“I will, Miss Bradwell. I will,” he answered. ‘For you,’ he thought.

*****

On the way out of the dining room, Hurley tapped Malcolm on the shoulder.

“A moment in private, my boy,” he said.

“Yes, Hurley? What is it,” Malcolm asked. Shelby was packing up for her classes at PanU and she had asked if he would walk with her. She seemed distracted, nervous and jumpy, even though the thugs’ boss was, according to the frequently reliable Panschin Gazette, dead.

Hurley whispered, “Jeffen sent me a message. He says ‘Thanks for the tip, we got an ore-car load of info out of him, and the job’s done’.”

Malcolm stared at the elderly bartender. “You know Jeffen?”

“An up and coming go-getter, our Jeffen is. Course I know him.” Hurley winked at Malcolm. “You got to get up to speed on Dome Two, Malcolm.

“Yes, I certainly do,” Malcolm said slowly. He could only hope he would remain free of Blue Sun while he did so. He hadn’t realized Hurley was a member.

“Very nice work in the tunnels under the White Elephant. You didn’t hesitate. I like that,” Hurley added. “Now that I know what to be on the lookout for, it won’t happen again to Neza or her girls.”

“Thank you, Hurley,” Malcolm said.

“Oh, and Malcolm? Let Mr. Wong know that I’ll be paying attention from here on out to what goes on at the White Elephant, seeing as how it’s got that hidden connection to the train station.”

Malcolm’s eyes went wider. He didn’t know what to say, other than nod in agreement.

*****

Shelby clutched Malcolm’s hand all the way to PanU. She hadn’t told him much about her plans for the day, other than she was going to change her situation at PanU. She nervously rehearsed what she wanted to say to Professor Vitebskin while they walked. She had to tear herself away from Malcolm at the stone archway, wanting to stay and kiss him rather than face the professor and any members of the PanU Artists’ Collective who might be standing around. Malcolm was very easy to kiss and he very obviously enjoyed kissing her.

Malcolm had carried her bulging portfolio, but it was her burden now.

She wished she could ask him to accompany her, but she wasn’t a child. She wasn’t naïve. She was an adult and needed to behave like one. Shelby had to remind herself that her sister had been married at this age. She could do this. She had talent. She had worth, even if no one at PanU was capable of recognizing it.

If she didn’t believe in herself, then it was a sure bet no one else would.

If she could live through what Tallon and Charlie had done, Professor Vitebskin should be easy to manage. He was an egotistical lecher but he wasn’t a rapist and a murderer.

She fretted through her morning, oblivious to the other students milling around. They didn’t know what had happened. It was a reprieve of sorts since then she would have had to discuss her home being invaded and what she, as Simon Bradwell’s daughter, must have done to deserve it.

Shelby made herself walk through the doors of the studio. She was onstage and would provide a show for the rest of the PanU Artists’ Collective. They’d gossip still more but it was the right thing to do for her. She wouldn’t lie. She’d always heard that the truth would set her free, but she didn’t feel free. She felt nauseated.

“Professor? I need to speak with you,” Shelby announced to the studio at large.

Professor Vitebskin was gleefully dissecting Bhupathi Middleton’s latest effort.

“Later,” he replied absently and returned to his evisceration of the painting in front of him.

Bhupathi shot Shelby a pleading look. She eyed him for a moment, quivering in his anxiety over what Professor Vitebskin was loudly saying about his total lack of effort and talent. Bhupathi had upset her with silly words the previous day. They were hurtful and he was rude, but he would never be the kind of threat that Tallon or Charlie were. They’d eat him up for a snack and go looking for their next victim. She said a little prayer of thanks again to the gods above and below that Tallon and Charlie were dead, along with their boss.

“Now,” Shelby said firmly and loudly. “It’s important.”

Professor Vitebskin turned and scowled at Shelby.

“Don’t be naïve. Important for you does not mean important for me, Shelby.”

She didn’t flinch, even though the usual audience was already gathering to see what was happening.

“This is important for both of us, Professor,” Shelby retorted.

“Fine, fine, let’s get this over with then. Bhupathi, do not move from that spot.”

“Yes, sir,” Bhupathi muttered. He gave Shelby a look of thanks and tried hard to blend into the furniture while watching what she did so he could tell all his friends later.

Shelby stood there, all eyes on her, and wondered where her carefully planned speech had gone.

“Well?” Professor Vitebskin demanded, his hands on his hips. “I’m on a time schedule here.” He was, too. It was nearing the end of the term, he had dozens of works to evaluate and grade, and Reyansh Philpott’s lawsuit was looming over him like a tunnel waiting to collapse and crush everything living beneath it into a bloody smear. Beautiful, zero talent, and dim-witted; that was Shelby Bradwell in a nutshell.

“You are correct, Professor Vitebskin,” Shelby made herself say. “I don’t belong here.”

He smirked at her. Not completely dim-witted, then.

“But not because I don’t have talent. I do have talent, but it’s not the right kind for your studio. My auntie Neza has an appointment with the bursar. She’s going to see if they can transfer my tuition over to PCC and their school of commercial art.”

“What?” Professor Vitebskin asked. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes, Professor. I’m trying to and I’m not going to lie to you like Clyde Monez did.” Shelby smiled tightly. Here came the difficult part.

“I hope you will persuade the bursar to transfer over my tuition money. Your studio isn’t the right place for me but I’m still glad I was here.”

Shelby stopped and lifted her heavy portfolio onto the table. “I wanted to show you what I’ve been working on. I learned so much from you about handling paint in gossamer layers. I couldn’t have learned these techniques from anyone else. Only you, Professor Vitebskin.”

She opened her portfolio and pulled out the painting of marigolds she had been working on first. Shelby had shown off her secret efforts to the family, Malcolm, and guests the previous evening, trying to distract her sister from fretting over Airik Jones’ late arrival. It had worked too, for a while. She could still hear their astonished praise and appreciation.

The oversized marigolds blazed in the studio, layer upon layer of delicate hazes of paint in every shade of fire from the deepest red of embers to the white-hot heat produced by a blast furnace. The flowers were framed by lacy green leaves, carefully shaded from green so dark it was almost black to the gold of new leaves in early spring.

She next laid out the pansies, smiling floral faces in violet and purple and sunny yellow laid upon milky white. These blooms were larger, hand-size to show their intricate detail. Her greens were more varied here, dappled with freckles of dancing sunlight.

She brought out her cloud painting last, the one she had promised to Jeffen. The clouds floated on the canvas, diaphanous layers of white upon white, pure and clean, round and fat like the real clouds she remembered from a long-ago trip to the summer park of Panschin. Her sky was ethereal, the azure deepening imperceptibly across the canvas just as the sky changed its color from horizon to zenith, and tinged with salmon pink from Martian dust.

Professor Vitebskin stared at the blazing, glorious canvases that lit up the studio while Shelby waited anxiously for a verdict.

“Shelby?” Kip pushed his way forward through the gaping, whispering mob of students and smiled hesitantly at her, then let his eyes fall onto her paintings.

“Those are really good,” Kip said, sounding as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.

“Well, they’re different,” Professor Vitebskin said, blinking at the storm of colors never permitted in his studio.

“You really are a genius with paint, Professor,” Shelby said. “I don’t use your techniques like you do, but I could never have painted my flowers and clouds if I hadn’t studied with you, here at PanU.”

“You talked about clouds with Jeffen when we went into the warren,” Kip said. “I didn’t know you painted them.”

“Yes,” Shelby said, beaming with pride. “I remembered every minute of watching them when I went to the outdoors summer park. I could never figure out how to paint clouds that looked right until I learned how to manipulate paint layers from Professor Vitebskin.”

Professor Vitebskin picked up the marigolds painting and carried it to the window, turning it this way and that as he examined Shelby’s technique. He said, after some moments, “you did learn something then, Shelby.”

“Yes, professor. I did. I want to take what I learned to PCC. I may end up drawing ladies’ shoes for department store adverts but they’ll be the best ladies’ shoes in Panschin,” Shelby replied. “I’ll finish out this term, of course, but I won’t return next term. I hope you will talk to the bursar about transferring my tuition since I won’t be here.”

Professor Vitebskin laid the marigolds down and picked up the clouds, letting himself fall emotionally into the painting. “These don’t get you a better grade, by the way,” he said absently, studying the sheer layers of paint building into the illusion of round, lush curves of air made solid.

“No, I didn’t think they would,” Shelby said.

“No extra-credit, either,” Professor Vitebskin added.

“I don’t expect it,” Shelby said.

Professor Vitebskin continued to study Shelby’s clouds as a cover for his thoughts. He was actually considering the White Elephant as a gallery space. Its ballroom and atrium were the finest venue he had come across for displaying works of art of all sizes. If he lost access to that beautiful, virtually free mansion, so convenient and exciting for Dome Six visitors, he’d have to resort to PanU’s own lackluster facilities. Losing Shelby as a student meant losing access to that glorious building.

However, if he played his cards correctly, he’d still have access to the White Elephant. He could share display space with the drivel that PCC students and instructors would produce. Their pitiful attempts would make his own protégés’ paintings shine all the brighter. He could lead the entire art establishment in Panschin, including -- he suppressed a shudder – commercial and instructional ‘art’. Those hacks would be thrilled to associate with the PanU Artists’ Collective. He’d suggest a group showing to the commercial art department at PCC the day after Shelby transferred, to be held, naturally, at the White Elephant. It was a given none of those mediocre dabblers would think of it themselves and he couldn’t count on dim-witted Shelby to do it for him.

“I will talk to the bursar as soon as possible, Shelby. I’m sure I can get them to consider your aunt’s request favorably,” Professor Vitebskin said with an encouraging smile.

Her relieved smile was as bright as her marigolds painting.

“Thank you so much, Professor Vitebskin,” Shelby gushed. “It means the world to me.”

“Well,” Professor Vitebskin replied. “We always want what’s best for our students at PanU and you, Shelby, are no exception.”

“Shelby?” Kip said. “Are you busy?”

Shelby turned and said, “well, yes, of course. I’ve got to finish up all my work here at PanU, since I won’t be back after the term ends.”

“I meant tonight,” Kip said. “Maybe we could go out? Get tea and a bun?”

Everyone in the studio turned to stare at Kip in open disbelief, including Professor Vitebskin.

It took a moment for Shelby to understand Kip, since his words were so extraordinary.

“Oh, that is so sweet of you, Kip,” she said warmly. “But I can’t. Malcolm’s taking me to dinner at the Dappled Yak and then the theater afterwards. I’ve never even been inside the Dappled Yak.” She beamed at him, along with the rest of the crowded studio. “I’m sure we can still be friends, though.”

Kip’s face fell. “Friends. Sure.” He turned away and Shelby transferred her attention to carefully repacking her paintings. He did not watch her leave the studio, head held high and radiantly happy, accepting whispered congratulations on her flower and cloud paintings and her upcoming date.

As soon as Shelby left, Professor Vitebskin said “Bhupathi, I’ll get back to you and this piece of insipid dross in a minute so don’t run off and hide like you’re trying to do. Kip? Over here.”

“Yes, professor?” Kip said wearily.

Professor Vitebskin gave Kip a careful looking over, making him wait for long minutes until he was seething with resentment.

“I could never figure out,” the professor said, “why a talentless poseur like you was wasting my time and your parents’ money in my studio. It was Shelby, wasn’t it. You wanted to be close to her but you didn’t have the spine to say or do something about it.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Professor Vitebskin,” Kip answered, his voice rough.

“I most certainly do. You are feckless, Kip. You lost Shelby to that jumped-up tunnel rat because you were so worried about what people would say about you caring about Simon Bradwell’s daughter. Or did her father defraud the McGrant family? Was that it?”

“You’re wrong,” Kip retorted but he could not meet the professor’s eyes or the eyes of the avid crowd around them.

“I am not. You don’t deserve her. You fail the term. Get out of my studio and find some other PanU department and waste their time and your parents’ money,” Professor Vitebskin said cheerfully. “And Kip? I want to thank you for finally, _finally_ contributing something worthwhile to my day. Bhupathi, you’re next.”


	36. Veronica goes to the Dappled Yak

Hurley’s word was better than the Panschin Gazette’s. If he said the thug’s boss was dead, then it was most likely true. Mrs. Grisson’s son and helpful boarders all left to get back to their own lives, armed with fresh, exciting gossip that would buy their drinks for weeks to come. Lulu and Florence left as well, accompanied by Trevor and Evan, heading towards their day at PCC.

Veronica then saw Shelby off to PanU, clutching Malcolm Cobb’s hand while he carried her portfolio.

Veronica felt very proud watching Shelby march off to confront Professor Vitebskin. Her little sister was growing up. Her paintings -- the paintings she had concealed for so long -- had been beautiful with their vivid, glowing colors and meticulous details. Neza had insisted on having Malcolm hold them up, one at a time in the atrium, to bathe in the sunshine pouring down. They outshone all of Professor Vitebskin’s own choices, radiant with joyous life.

With each set of departures for the day, the White Elephant became quieter and emptier.

Then came Airik Jones’ turn, with Inigo, Elliot, and Nunzio.

Veronica met him at the doorway to the garden, wanting to reassure him and be reassured.

“Mr. Jones, take care, please. You’re still injured.” Why was she babbling about the obvious?

“So I am, Miss Bradwell,” Airik replied. Gads but he sounded like a fool.

She took a deep breath. “Please, do make time to see the shamans. I know it may seem silly to an outsider. I hardly understand it myself. But you must do the purification ritual to stay safe.”

He watched her bosom rise and fall, mesmerized.

“Yes, I will. It should be interesting.” Airik wanted to cringe. He tore his eyes away. He couldn’t think of anything clever or reassuring to say to Veronica and he could hardly talk about the weather as a fallback position, since there wasn’t any inside the dome.

She laughed suddenly, a gurgling that reminded him again of rippling brooks catching and reflecting sunlight. “Yes, it will be that. I’m sure they don’t have anything like it in Barsoom.”

“No, they don’t,” Airik said. He was still lying to her. Would he ever stop?

“Sir? Mr. Jones?” Inigo interrupted reluctantly. “We’ll be late for your first seminar of the day if we don’t get moving.” He could not figure out what was going on with the daimyo of Shelleen and Veronica Bradwell. One would almost think they fancied each other but were too shy and awkward to say so. He had to laugh inwardly at such a ridiculous notion. Veronica had once been a good friend, capable and talented, but she remained Simon Bradwell’s daughter. The daimyo of Shelleen could and would look far higher for a wife.

Airik gritted his teeth. He did not want to leave Veronica. He examined the thought. He didn’t want to leave her ever again. He wanted to come home to her. He was falling in love with Veronica Bradwell. The realization of his own emotions was intense. He had to accept his feelings for her were true, seeing as how he could no longer ignore them. They kept crowding into his every waking moment and invaded his dreams. Accepting them, however, did not mean acting on them.

But Inigo was correct. He had work to do, his duties to Shelleen to execute. He could not stay with Veronica.

“I must go. I will be back this evening again.” He sounded like a fool.

She smiled at him. “I’ll be waiting.” Lordy, but she sounded inane, especially since she was talking to a paying guest who would leave for Barsoom at the end of the Biennial Mining Conference. She wasn’t talking to her lover, much as she wished he could be. His kiss had been wonderful.

She watched Airik Jones and his entourage walk down the street, towards the transtube station and Dome Six until he disappeared from view, swallowed by the morning crowds and the distance.

“He’s a fine young man,” Neza said softly. She’d been watching her niece and wishing she could do something to help.

“Yes, he is,” Veronica said and bit her lip hard to keep her emotions throttled down.

“We’re very, very fortunate that he was late in coming to Panschin for the conference and decided to stay with us at the White Elephant.” Veronica paused, facing dreary reality. “But he’ll return home to Barsoom and nothing will come of it. I have to get the order ready for the Dappled Yak. Please excuse me, auntie Neza.”

She wished she could leave Panschin for Barsoom with Airik Jones. No one in Barsoom knew who she was, and if they did, they wouldn’t care. She would be able to see the sky and the moons of Mars racing across it. She would have the chance of a new life, free of the constrictions of Panschin.

She would be with him.

*****

The chef/owner at the Dappled Yak was, as always, pleased with Veronica’s produce and bought everything, not always a guarantee. They gossiped about doings in the neighborhood while he sorted through her greens, tasting and deciding what he would cook for the next few days. She was able to reassure him (and the rest of the staff) that the thugs would not be coming back but she didn’t go into detail, not wanting to relive the struggle with Tallon and Charlie in the endless night underneath Panschin.

She was ready to leave, anticipating a pocket jingling with coin to go with the empty wagon, when one of the waitresses interrupted their conversation.

Veronica waited impatiently while the two conferred in whispers, glancing over at her periodically. She needed her coin and knew better than to leave without it. The chef/owner had already admitted he had the money available today. If she came back later, some other creditor would get paid and she’d go to the end of the line. Cash flow was always an issue with small businesses like this one.

“Veronica?” the chef/owner asked, with a big, unnerving smile on his face. “Important clients are having lunch today.”

She eyed him warily. “I’m glad you have important clients but what does that have to do with me?”

“It’s the PanU board of trustees. They recently started meeting here for their monthly luncheon, in large part because of your wonderful home-grown, perfectly fresh greens.”

“How nice. I’m glad they like them.” Veronica tensed, guessing what was coming.

“They want to meet with you. Find out how you grow such wonderful salad greens and other vegetables.” The chef/owner grinned wider, showing every one of his sharp white teeth.

She felt her stomach drop. He needed her to do this, keeping these lucrative customers happy, but meeting strangers was difficult. They’d ask her name. Not enough time had passed for Simon Bradwell to be forgotten in Panschin; she didn’t think enough time would ever pass.

“You know about my father,” Veronica said slowly. “What if they ask my name? They may not come back, knowing that you do business with me.”

“I’m sure they won’t bother and if they do, don’t tell them your real name. They want to feel good about themselves and, to be blunt, I want them to feel good too, so they come back and tell all their friends. I need their business,” the owner replied. He showed his teeth again in an imitation of a cheery smile. “You need my business. One big circle, Veronica.”

His implication was clear.

“Of course,” she said, forcing out a tight smile. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize her. It had been a long time since she’d last been in court and seen a sketch of herself testifying in the newspaper. Those drawings were never very accurate. Shelby did a better job than whoever the Panschin Gazette was employing. These important clients might never have met her father.

Veronica steeled herself and followed the chef/owner through the bustling kitchen and past the swinging doors. She hadn’t been inside the restaurant portion of the Dappled Yak since her divorce from Dean. Afterwards, as Simon Bradwell’s empire collapsed with one blaring headline after another to ensure anyone who could read a newspaper knew what was happening, she had neither the money nor the inclination to go out in public.

It looked as it always had; murals of fanciful landscapes adorning the walls, a parquet floor dotted with circles of light from the deck prisms overhead, and many small round tables, each with a yellow gingham tablecloth and a small vase holding a flower. Today, they were red zinnias, just starting to fade. Perhaps, Veronica thought, looking for a distraction, she should consider growing some flowers for sale. She deeply missed growing quantities of flowers and filling the White Elephant with them. But she couldn’t. Her little family could eat ugly, unsellable vegetables and did, but they couldn’t eat zinnias, easy as they were to grow. Unsold flowers, however a good food they were for the soul, did nothing to feed the belly.

There were many people enjoying their lunch so the Dappled Yak owner must be earning _some_ money. He’d make more tonight when Malcolm brought Shelby here for dinner. Perhaps she could charge a few pennies more for her own produce. She glanced at him. It was worth asking, particularly since he knew just how much she disliked going out in public.

The owner/chef led the way to the large side alcove, reserved for larger groups. She had enjoyed a wonderful luncheon there once, helping a friend celebrate her engagement. That friend no longer spoke to her, not after dear old dad was revealed as a crook.

The group currently sitting around the long table were laughing over something and didn’t pay any attention to her arrival. It gave Veronica a moment to see if she recognized anyone.

She did. Oh lordy. She did.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” the owner announced with a flourish, before she could escape. “This is our very own supplier, Veronica B.”

“Hello,” Veronica said brightly. Damn him. He had implied he wouldn’t say her name. He’d just made it impossible to claim she wasn’t related to Simon Bradwell.

The conversation stopped and all eyes turned to her, silhouetted in a pool of light spilling through the deck prism overhead.

“ _You_!” Sajag Burgess spat out. “You grew this rubbish? I knew I was becoming nauseous from eating it.”

“Yes, Mr. Burgess,” Veronica ground out. “I did. I raise the finest salad greens in Panschin which is why the Dappled Yak serves them.”

“A likely story. Ladies, gentlemen, this _person_ is the daughter of the notorious Simon Bradwell,” Mr. Burgess said loudly, managing to draw the attention of not just his fellow PanU board members but also the attention of the other diners in the restaurant. “She should be in jail.”

The owner of the Dappled Yak looked appalled and stepped back, leaving Veronica alone. Fury roared through her. Mr. Burgess was an obese nothing compared to Tallon, now on ice in the Panschin morgue.

“In jail along with _you_ , Mr. Burgess,” Veronica snapped back. “Have you ever told your fellow board members that you used to gamble regularly in the casinos of Panschin with my father? Exactly where did all that money go that my father embezzled? Into _your_ pockets? I’ve always wondered. They never found most of it, yet you, gambling with my father, always seemed so wealthy, even when he lost. Maybe you were in cahoots with Simon Bradwell!”

“I was _not_!” Mr. Burgess yelled, aghast. “I never associated with Simon Bradwell.”

“You _did_! Dean Kangjuon gambled with the both of you on a regular basis and he’ll testify in court. You never lost money, so he said. You must have cheated because no one can win at the tables forever, not without cheating!”

“How dare you,” Mr. Burgess began.

“How dare _I_?” Veronica yelled back, cutting him off. “You work for the Second National Bank of Panschin! You referred clients to my father so he could rob them! He gave you a cut, didn’t he. It’s either that or you are the most incompetent banker in Panschin! Nothing else makes sense.”

“Veronica?” the owner said placatingly.

“You wanted to show me off like a museum exhibit,” Veronica snarled at him. “I warned you someone would recognize me.”

The Dappled Yak owner retreated another step back at her fury.

“You grow these greens, young woman?” one of the board members asked. She was an older woman, older than Neza, Veronica thought.

“Yes, ma’am, I do,” Veronica said. “It’s how I pay the bills. Mr. Burgess and dear old dad ensured that my sister, my great-aunt, and I are bankrupt. And now Mr. Burgess is trying to evict us from our home! My auntie Neza has lived there her entire life and this _person_ wants to throw us out. It has to be because he feels guilty over gambling with my father and defrauding the citizens of Panschin with my father.”

“You gambled with Simon Bradwell?” one of the other board members asked Mr. Burgess. “You claimed you didn’t know him at all.”

“I did not socialize with that crook,” Mr. Burgess said righteously. “I had barely any contact with him.”

“Yes, you _did_ ,” Veronica shouted. “I’ve seen your signature on documents my father handed out, documents that encouraged people to invest with my father. Are you trying to say you let your signature be _forged_? Are you that incompetent or are you lying?”

“I do not lie!” Mr. Burgess growled, lumbering to his feet and looming over the table like a mountain upholstered in floral drapery.

“I think you do,” the older woman on the board said slowly. “My sister, gods above and below rest her soul, told me once that you recommended Simon Bradwell to her. I didn’t think anything of it at the time since so many people did, but now, hearing Miss Bradwell, I have to wonder.”

“Mrs. Smythe, many people were taken in by Simon Bradwell,” Mr. Burgess began.

“Because you helped him _lie_ to Second National clients,” Veronica shouted louder, interrupting him. “Why else would you recommend a thief and a fraud and a conman? Because he paid you off! Because you two were working together all along! Because you gambled besides him in the casinos of Panschin, wearing your lucky suits!”

“Lucky suit?” one of the other board members asked.

“He wears those ridiculous, exaggerated floral suits because he believes it makes him lucky at the tables,” Veronica replied. “Why else would anyone wear clothing that could be sewn from the PanU cafeteria drapes?”

More than one person, both at the PanU board table and out in the larger restaurant laughed, making Mr. Burgess’s face grow darker with fury and embarrassment.

“These are strong accusations,” another board member offered.

Veronica peered at him, sitting in a more shadowy portion of the alcove and then remembered why he looked familiar. He had been with Kip McGrant at the gallery showing. Shelby had told her he was Peng McGrant. Florence had said Peng McGrant would sue the Bradwell family because of Kip’s surface sickness. Peng McGrant also indulged in high-stakes gambling with Simon Bradwell.

“Mr. McGrant,” she said sweetly. “I didn’t know you were on PanU’s board.”

He blanched. He hadn’t, she understood looking at his face, realized she knew who he was and he was suddenly afraid of what she might say to the rest of the PanU board. She could give him a reason to support her cause.

“I don’t know if you were told, Mr. McGrant, but your son, Kip, was the only member of the PanU Artists’ Collective who was brave and responsible enough to go into the Steelio Warren with my sister Shelby.”

“My Kip did that?” Mr. McGrant asked, shocked and relieved at the change of subject.

“Yes, he did. You should be very proud of your son, Mr. McGrant,” Veronica replied smoothly. “I know he unexpectedly developed surface sickness as a result, but he’s a conscientious and talented young man nonetheless. Kip is an asset to your family.” She decided to stop there rather than lay on more praise, particularly since there wasn’t anything else positive she could say about Kip.

“The Steelio warren?” Mrs. Smythe asked curiously.

“Yes, ma’am,” Veronica said. “My sister, Shelby, was invited to the warren along with the rest of the PanU Artists’ Collective to get a better understanding of how art affects the working classes. Kip was the only other student who agreed to go.”

“Very nice behavior on your son’s part, Peng,” Mrs. Smythe said to Mr. McGrant. “Kip clearly takes after his father.”

Veronica smiled even more sweetly while biting back ‘Peng McGrant was another of dear old dad’s gambling partners.’

“Why are we even listening to this deranged woman?” Mr. Burgess said. “She’s trying to poison us with her salad!”

“The salad isn’t poisonous,” Mrs. Smythe retorted. “I’ve enjoyed it many times at the Dappled Yak. You, Mr. Burgess, on the other hand, _are_ poisonous. I think you lied to my sister. Your favorable advice about Simon Bradwell ruined my sister. My sister committed suicide because of _you_ , Mr. Burgess.” She was shaking with fury and near tears.

“I am so sorry to hear about your sister, Mrs. Smythe,” Veronica said gently. “My father destroyed lives wherever he went. He didn’t care about anyone but himself. Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

“You take after your mother, I think, Miss Bradwell,” Mrs. Smythe said, regaining some of her composure. She wiped her eyes with a napkin.

“Thank you, ma’am. That’s very generous of you. My sister, my auntie Neza, and I miss her every day, just as you miss your sister,” Veronica said. “Death is final and awful.”

“Veronica?” the owner/chef said carefully, seizing his opening. “Didn’t you say you had other appointments before I asked you over here?”

“Why yes, I did. But I want my money first for my vegetables,” Veronica snapped. “I need it to pay my lease. You of all people know how close to the bone we are.”

“Absolutely,” the owner replied, trying hard to sound helpful and caring while wishing he had lied to the board about the presence of his salad supplier. “We’ll get that taken care of back in the kitchen.”

“Thank you for your time,” Veronica said smoothly to the PanU board members. “I loved PanU when I went there. It’s a wonderful university and I wish I had been able to complete my studies. I would recommend, however, that you examine Mr. Burgess’s financial dealings with the board. He’s either the most incompetent banker in Panschin or he’s just as big a fraud and embezzler as my father, Simon Bradwell, was. Please don’t let harm come to PanU.”

Another diner at the table said to the group, “I think you should do just that. I don’t wish to join a board that has a member operating under such a cloud of suspicion and incompetence.”

“Mr. Qiao, Bertram,” Mr. Burgess sputtered. “I never…”

“I’ve heard many unpleasant rumors about you, Burgess,” Mr. Qiao said. “My firm has wondered how you retained power despite your obvious malfeasances. Perhaps this is an explanation.”

“I would agree,” Mrs. Smythe said, her lips compressed into a tight, unhappy line.

“Miss Bradwell obviously operates a market gardening scheme, in direct violation of the lease,” Mr. Burgess said coldly. “She is trying to hide her own sins by accusing me. I am merely doing my duty to Second National.”

“By evicting people working to pay their bills like a banker in some tawdry melodrama?” Mrs. Smythe said even more coldly. “Yet you could not manage due diligence to your clients, such as my dear, lost sister.”

“I have heard some rumors as well,” Peng McGrant said cautiously, glancing nervously at Bertram Qiao as he did so.

“Peng!” Mr. Burgess cried, his hand clutching his heart and his face distraught. Mr. McGrant turned away and studied the remains of his salad.

Veronica smiled coolly. “Please excuse me. I know you are all busy people. Do enjoy the salad.”

She marched back to the Dappled Yak kitchen, head held high, and surrounded by a gale of chatter and stares. Mr. Burgess would have plenty of work on his hands, trying to cover up what he had done with Simon Bradwell. She’d have to thank Dean for telling her. She’d have to ask Inigo which member of Qiao & Schopenhour was joining the PanU board of trustees since she didn’t recognize him.

She winced inwardly.

She’d also have to talk to Airik Jones when he returned this evening. She couldn’t lie by omission to him any longer. He had to know who she really was and how it would affect him. This incident proved it.

*****

Airik still couldn’t sit comfortably on the transtube, twisting and turning in his seat.

“Sir?” Inigo said carefully. “I’m sure there’s space in the first-class compartment.” He took another wary look around again at the third-class compartment. He’d never sat in one before. It was crowded with the kind of people he did not normally associate with.

Airik glared at him. “Will the first-class compartment of this particular transtube arrive faster in Dome Six?”

“No, sir,” Inigo replied.

“Sir,” Nunzio said. “When we get to the hotel, you’re seeing the doc again. You said you’d see him every morning and evening.”

“I’ve got a full day ahead of me,” Airik snapped. “Squeezing in a meeting with the shamans will eat too much time as it is.”

“You’re in pain, sir,” Elliot interposed from his seat. He’d helped Airik undress the previous night and tsked over the stitches and bruises. “Your functioning will be impaired.”

“Got to agree with Elliot, sir,” Nunzio said. “It’s hard to concentrate when everything hurts.”

Inigo wanted desperately to ask why the daimyo of Shelleen was in such pain but didn’t dare, particularly not in the third-class compartment on the transtube. And why had Airik insisted on the third-class compartment? Then he got it. Airik was wearing a plebian coverall and was hoping to go unnoticed. It might even be working since, he, Inigo, was getting the hostile stares for his own expensive, well-tailored business suit. Everyone around them was ignoring Airik, Nunzio, and Elliot, all wearing anonymous standard-issue Panschin coveralls.

Nunzio frowned. “Sir, you got to see the doc. You got to see how my lord Upton’s doing anyways.”

“Good time management, sir,” Elliot added.

“And if you don’t go on your own, I’ll carry you there,” Nunzio said with great finality.

“Fine,” Airik said. He should, he knew, be gratified by how his own people were so concerned about his health, but it was annoying. He also knew that Nunzio would do as he threatened. His bodyguard was still angry over Airik’s orders to stay aboveground instead of keeping his daimyo from injury.

*****

Once inside the hotel, Airik sent Elliot upstairs with a message to Gaston as to where he’d be. Elliot wouldn’t return afterwards. He had his own assigned researches to attend to.

At the infirmary, the hotel doctor was waiting anxiously. So was Winifred Qiao, now dressed in a neat medical coverall with the Qiao & Schopenhour logo on it, along with her name embroidered over her heart. She must have sent out for clothes overnight. She was pacing back and forth in her agitation.

“Good to see you again, my lord Shelleen,” the doctor said. “Strip and while I’m looking you over, we’ll talk about Upton.”

“His condition has declined?” Airik asked. He had thought Upton was holding his own, based on his visit the previous evening.

“Yes.”

“Winifred?” Inigo asked. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m with Upton,” she replied absently. “We’ll talk later.”

Airik wriggled out of his clothes showing off his constellation of bruises and stitches. The bruises were darkening and spreading, showing every single time his body had been slammed by a fist, a boot, or was shoved into the unyielding stone in the tunnels under the White Elephant.

“What happened to you,” Inigo gasped in horror. No wonder Airik had to see the shamans. He’d insist again, even though it meant agreeing with Malcolm Cobb, something he had thought he’d never do. The questions suddenly arose: Cobb had been involved, but how? Had he been injured too? Had he let the daimyo of Shelleen take the brunt of whatever occurred?

“Patient confidentiality, Inigo,” Winifred snapped at him before Airik could do it.

“Itchy? Pain? Aches?” the hotel doctor asked as he gave Airik a quick inspection.

“All of the above,” Airik admitted.

“Good, good, just as I expected. Your bruises will get worse before they get better. Let’s put some salve on while we chat about Upton.”

“He’s not doing well?” Airik asked.

“No. He might have avoided pneumonia, but the cracked ribs aren’t letting him breathe properly. I’m transferring him to the Dome Six hospital for a few days. They’ll tent him to make it easier to breathe. I need your approval.”

“I’ll be going along, my lord Shelleen,” Winifred said. “I’ll make sure my Upton gets properly taken care of.”

The door to the infirmary was thrown open and Gaston stomped in.

“Airik, we need to talk right now. Good Gods above and below and of the harvest! What were you doing?” Gaston stopped and stared openmouthed at Airik’s constellation of bruises and the black lines of catgut stitching his wounds closed.

Gaston then whipped around and snarled at Nunzio, “where in seven hells were you?”

“Doing what my lord Shelleen told me to, as I told you yesterday,” Nunzio said. “You think I liked sitting on my hands? I didn’t!”

“Enough!” Airik shouted. “Doctor, send Upton to the hospital and keep me informed as to his progress. Miss Qiao, my thanks. Inigo, take notes of the conversation. Gaston, what is the problem now?”

Gaston managed to close his mouth and reordered his thoughts while Airik fumed as the doctor smeared more stinging salve across his injuries.

“Atto contacted Auntie Zilpah back in Shelleen,” Gaston said. “He informed her and, by extension, the family, that you have been ignoring the possible brides being presented to you by the daimyos of the Northern Mining Tier, starting with Kendra. Then, immediately afterwards, Maerski did the same. Zilpah then contacted me, breathing fire, and informed _me_ in no uncertain terms to inform _you_ that this trip to Panschin had multiple aims. The family expects you to marry and soon.”

Airik wanted to rant and swear. Instead he said, very coldly, “inform Zilpah, the family, Atto and Maerski that I will never marry Kendra Atto. Nor will I marry any member of the Atto family or the Maerski family after that stunt. I will choose a bride when I am ready. In addition, inform _them_ that I will look at any business deal they propose with even less favor than I do now.”

“Yes, Airik, but…” Gaston’s voice trailed off, seeing Airik’s expression. He thought of Howard Shelleen again. He wondered what had happened to whoever Airik had tangled with and where their body was. There had been a gruesome story in the morning newspapers about a body discovered in a Dome Six park.

“Was there anything else?”

“Yes, yes there was. Some fool named Cobb insisted that you meet him in front of the hotel within the hour for a purification ritual,” Gaston said, back on safer ground.

“Ah. That was fast,” Airik said. “I will be there. You will take charge in my absence. Inigo, attend my scheduled seminars and take detailed notes. I will review them upon my return.”

“What? You can’t miss this morning’s sessions!” Gaston protested.

Meanwhile, the hotel doctor looked at Airik’s injuries again and blanched as did Winifred Qiao. “You acquired your contusions and wounds in the deepdown under Dome Two, didn’t you,” the doctor said.

“I did,” Airik said.

The hotel doctor turned to Gaston. “Doctor’s orders. My lord Shelleen must do this. Everyone in Panschin will understand. I’ve got to get Upton prepped for his own trip to the hospital’s pneumonia wing.” He got up and headed out of the room, followed by Winifred Qiao, visibly uneasy.

“Sir?” Inigo said to Gaston. “Permit me to do the explanations. Everyone in Panschin, including the Northern Mining Tier demesnes will understand.”

“I don’t understand!” Gaston pleaded.

“I’ll explain on the way,” Inigo said. “You head Shelleen’s mining department. I assume you are familiar with the deepdown and what lives beneath?”

“Well, yes, I suppose I am, in a way, but,” Gaston said uneasily. “I don’t see….” He stopped suddenly, his face ashen and fell into a chair. “Oh, gods, Airik. What did you do?”

*****

Back in the suite, Airik refused to enlighten Gaston on more than the basics. He insisted on focusing on what work he could get finished before meeting Malcolm Cobb in the Twelve Happiness lobby. When word was carried upstairs, by the concierge himself, Airik said “Gaston, I will return as quickly as possible. Inigo, make the explanations as needed. Nunzio, you will accompany me.”

The concierge, uncharacteristically subdued and waiting anxiously for his response, looked relieved.

Airik then made his painful way back down the four flights of marble stairs, silently cursing the architect for mis-designing them with every step. Nunzio followed silently, wishing he had been able to persuade the daimyo to take the elevator instead. Airik had also refused to be carried.

Malcolm Cobb was waiting in the lobby.

“Airik,” he said, “I’ll lead the way.” He gave Nunzio a considering look. “It won’t be necessary for Nunzio to go underneath with us.”

“Yes, it is,” Nunzio replied, beating Airik to the punch. “It’s how my lord got Gaston to agree.”

“He would have still agreed,” Airik said. “Gaston told me when we got back upstairs to the suite that what lives beneath spoke to him once in Shelleen.”

“Really?” Malcolm asked, shocked to his core. “Really? Why isn’t he a shaman?”

“Gaston is a member of the Shelleen family,” Airik replied stiffly. “Shelleen is primarily agricultural. Although we have mining operations, they do not enjoy the prestige they should. What lives beneath does not receive the respect that the harvest deities do.”

“That’s appalling,” Malcolm said.

“Shelleen is a different world. Lead the way. I don’t have time to waste.”

*****

At the metro station, Malcolm led the way to a lower staircase, one plunging further down under Panschin. Then another. Then a much dirtier, more crowded metro station, with dingier transtubes.

Airik observed another section of Panschin carefully, one that the chamber of commerce had not touted. He found himself happy that Gaston and Nunzio both had insisted he take along the bodyguard. No one, to his relief, paid any attention. A short ride later, Malcolm changed transtubes again, leaving Airik hopelessly lost.

“You do know where we are going?” Airik asked quietly.

“I do. The chamber is sacred. None of the transtubes or mining operations go near it so we have to work our way around the city to get there. There’s no direct route.”

“Not even above ground?” Airik said. “Through the upper levels connecting the domes?”

“No. We’ll be at the passageway soon.”

I am underground. Won’t that be a problem?” Airik asked dryly. “I understood that I could never go underground again.”

Malcolm grinned. “We’ll be fine. I have the talisman and by extension, so do you.” He pulled a fist-sized chunk of azure crystal from his pocket.

Airik was instantly caught by the crystal’s flashing beauty. “May I see? I’m not familiar with this mineral.”

“Don’t drop it,” Malcolm said.

“Never.”

Airik held the crystal carefully, turning it this way and that, admiring how it caught the light from its many, natural facets. Even on closer inspection, he couldn’t identify the mineral. He thought suddenly of Veronica and how she would love the stone’s beauty, leading to thoughts of how a crystal like this could be cut into gems that would enhance her own beauty. The blue reminded him of a summer day in Shelleen; with a sky that Veronica had never seen. She would be entranced by that sky, vast and open and always changing, unlike the dome.

“Other people are looking at us now, because of that pretty rock,” Nunzio said. “That gonna be a problem, Mr. Cobb?”

“No.”

Nunzio watched the other riders each glance carefully at the crystal in Airik’s hands, then sidle away, leaving an island of space surrounding them in an otherwise crowded metal tube.

‘Guess not,’ he thought and relaxed back into his seat.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to learn more about general life, check out the [ Life on Mars](https://odessamoon.com/blog/) blog.


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